


Sousuke

by PrincessSmuttButt



Category: Free!
Genre: Angst, Future, M/M, OC, Olympics, Swimming, What Did I Just Write, gayyyyy, really gay, rin is an asshole, sourin, sousuke is underrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSmuttButt/pseuds/PrincessSmuttButt
Summary: In the year 2047, Sousuke Matsuoka, the twenty-two year-old daughter of Olympic champion Rin Matsuoka, comes back to visit her father in Tokyo. One day, while she sits in a coffee shop working on her senior thesis, a man who tells her to call him Yamazaki-san approaches her. And suddenly, Sousuke is thrown back, through photographs and magazine articles, twenty-four years in the past. To a time before her parents' marriage. She starts to piece together the story of Rin Matsuoka and Sousuke Yamazaki's love. She sees the passionate, dramatic twists and turns that built it and broke it, and finds that maybe, it isn't as far in the past as she thinks.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for clicking on my story, "Sousuke." 
> 
> This story is a bit of a new beast for me. It involves an OC, Rin's daughter, at the forefront, which is something I've never done. The writing style is also way different than anything I've done, but I enjoyed writing it and I quite like the story. Guess I'll see what you guys think about it! 
> 
> Major plot hole I'm owning up to now: 
> 
> This story takes place in 2047. But I have no way of knowing or predicting (and I really don't care to do so) how technology and life will have changed by then. So I write life in 2047 pretty much as I would write it in the present day. Sorry /: 
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> The story has a total of 20 chapters, and I'll update every two or three days!! 
> 
> Enjoy :)

1

 

_ Present Day—2047 _

I realize, staring idly at my computer screen and not moving a muscle, that I need a change of scenery. The kitchen of my father’s home does no longer suffice. I’ve officially reached a plateau in the progress of my thesis. Just as these thoughts enter my jumbled mind, my father saunters into the kitchen, drinking from a can of Coke.

“Isn’t it too early for soda?” I sigh, leaning my cheek on my hand.

“Let your old man do what he wants,” he smirks at me. “I was on the strictest diet for—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. ‘I was on the strictest diet for ten years!’” I smile at him, and he smiles back, and then nods toward my computer.

“How’s it coming?”

“Not so well. I think I need to work somewhere else.”

“I don’t know where the kids do it these days, or what you do in the States, but there’s a really cute coffee shop in Shinjuku where my university friends used to study,” he says. I perk up at the idea of hauling my work to a coffee shop, something I do a lot in America but haven’t really had the chance to do here. “Why don’t you try it? Let me text you the address.”

“Okay, yeah. Sounds like a good idea. Thanks, Dad.”

“Come here and give me a kiss before you go.”

Chuckling to myself, I lean across the counter as he gives his cheek with a wide grin, and I place a loud and slobbery kiss there. He smells just as I’ve always known him to smell: of cherry blossoms (the way they smell in the peak of spring) and pool water. In turn, I give him my cheek, and he does the same for me. I wonder if I have a special daughter smell, the way he has a special father smell.

“Be careful, all right, Princess? Stranger danger!”

“Bye, Dad.”

I wave my hand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head to the nearest train station to grab the next ride to Shinjuku.

 

* * *

 

The shop is small and just as cute as my father made it sound. To even find it, I had to walk down a staircase where, neighboring said cute coffee shop, is a not-so-discreet sex store and a smoke shop. As I push the door open and take a deep breath, clear of the city’s bustling and smelly air, I decide instantly that this is the place where I will finish my thesis. I stand at the front door for a few moments, taking it all in. It’s not the brightest place, not the most well-lit—which might have bugged some students—and there were grainy framed photos on the dark walls of far-away places and canyons and forests. There are fake candles on the walls and the tables, and the menu is written on a chalkboard behind the cash register. I wonder which of my father’s friends discovered this place, and I make a note to ask him later.

I order a cup of jasmine tea (I’ve never been a coffee person) and sit down at a table near an outlet. Then I open my laptop, spread my work out on the table, put on my giant clunky headphones for maximum thesis inspiration, and get to work. And, as I suspected, the change of scenery creates a dramatic change in my work ethic.

There aren’t many people here. It’s the type of place that only certain people know about, or stumble upon in a drunken stupor one day desperate for coffee. That’s what I imagine, at least. How anybody close to my father knows about it is an enigma, but I’m thankful. There’s an old man in the corner reading a Yasunari Kawabata book. There’s a young woman, about my age, drinking coffee and closing her eyes and listening to music. There’s a middle-aged couple at the table by the window holding hands and murmuring hushed oaths of forever. And here I sit, a 22 year-old college student, slaving away at her thesis. I fit right in. Like the missing puzzle piece. They’re playing soft American jazz, which I like, but can’t work to, which is why I put my headphones on. I take solace in the fact that I won’t run into anybody I know here—it’s just that kind of coffee shop. The kind where I can come and sit alone with my music and work and wallow in the content solitude of it all.

It’s not that I don’t like my house. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. There is nowhere in Tokyo where I feel more comfortable. But I don’t want to taint it too much by doing work. I go to a university in America, majoring in history and anthropology, and am home for winter break. So I’d much rather spend time with my family at home than do work. I want to keep the atmosphere pure there.

As the hours pass, I keep myself alert by people watching. Paying special attention to each customer that walks in. Some pop in and out, ordering their coffee and going off on their way. Others take a seat, spend time on the soft couches, probably feel uncomfortable as the strange blue-eyed girl (me) at the table watches them from behind the mysterious screen of her laptop. A few cute girls walk in, a really beautiful man about my age, but mostly people my father’s age—in their forties or fifties.

At around four, another man walks in. He looks about my father’s age, too, and he’s wearing an expensive-looking tracksuit. His brown hair is cropped short, perhaps to hide the fact that he’s balding slightly, and when he walks the entire ground shakes. He’s big. At least 6’2”. But he’s muscular. My own father is really muscular, but he’s much more lean than this man. His body-builder type physique is what attracts me in the first place, makes me watch him a little bit longer than I watched the others. He doesn’t notice me staring. I can’t tell the color of his eyes from where I’m sitting, but I can tell that he has a darker complexion. Like he’s been kissed by the sun. Though he doesn’t look particularly young. There’s something heavy about him. His posture is good, but when he walks there is the slightest shuffle in his step. It’s something that anybody less observant (or creepy, whichever you prefer) might not have noticed. He’s carrying a burden.

As he orders at the front I go back to my work. I’ve grown bored with watching him, and my thesis is coming along much more slowly than I’d hoped. I continue typing.

Until I feel a strange sensation. The sensation of someone watching me. You know the one.

I look up from my computer and see the man in the tracksuit. He is frozen, his hand on the doorknob and his other hand grasping a to-go cup of coffee. He’s staring right at me, eyes wide and lips tight. I meet his gaze and blink, slightly startled to be met with such an intense expression. I freeze where I am, too. Even when I look up at him, he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Keeps staring at me. I realize then that his eyes are green. Beautiful, teal green, and droopy. Not in an unattractive way. Just...droopy.

I awkwardly look back at my computer screen and continue typing, but I can still feel him watching me, and it’s starting to freak me out a little bit. Before I have the chance to do anything, he moves from the door and walks up to my table. Slowly and cautiously, I lower my headphones to my neck and look up at him. He has his hand in his pocket now and is leaning down and his brow is furrowed and it makes his already stern face even more austere. Now I can see wrinkles that have begun to invade his skin, an exhaustion in his eyes. That burden.

“Um,” I begin, “can I help you?”

“You,” he says, but stops. My eyes dart around the room, wondering if anybody has noticed this bizarre situation. At least, it seems bizarre to me. Nobody has ever stared at me with such conviction before, or approached me with such a strange look.

“Sorry, but I have to work to do, and—”

“Are you...” he begins again. I raise my eyebrows. He leans a tad bit closer and looks me right in the eyes. I notice that he’s wearing a necklace, with a simple rope chain and a small, silver, rectangular pendant. “Are you Rin Matsuoka’s daughter?”

He must be one of them, I think to myself. One of my father’s fans. One of those guys that idolized him when he took the world by storm in the swimming pool and still recognize him on the street—but this guy must be a _real_ fanatic if he’s acting like this.

“Do you know my father?” I ask. Just to humor him. I’ve been stopped on the street for things like this before. I’ve been told a million times over that I look exactly like my Olympic champion father.

“I did. A long time ago,” the man says, finally breaking into a smile. “It’s incredible how much you look like him. Except for your eyes. They’re very blue.”

“People say I have my mother’s eyes. Unfortunately I got everything else from Pops,” I reply. “How’d you know him? Are you a fan?”

The man takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling. I see his fingers tighten around his cup of coffee.

“A fan...no.” His voice is soft now, and he lowers his face. I’ve never seen such a sad smile, and it strikes at my core in an unexpected rush. “We used to be very good friends.”

“I’ll tell him I ran into you,” I smile, though I don’t particularly believe his story. When you’re a world champion, you suddenly get a lot more friends. “What’s your name?”

“No, no, don’t tell him. Don’t tell him you saw me.”

“Oh. Well, okay.”

“This might sound strange, but...do you mind if I sit?” He gestures toward the empty chair across from me, and I nod. He sits down, making the table tremble, and grasps at his coffee with both hands with a sigh.

“What’s your name?” I ask again.

“Just call me Yamazaki.” I notice then that he’s wearing a nametag—one of those fancy ones that you clip to your lapel. It says, predictably enough, ‘Yamazaki.’ No first name. I can see, in tiny print, the words ‘Tokyo Physical Therapy.’

“Okay, Yamazaki-san. Nice to meet you.”

“Your name?”

I chuckle and roll my eyes.

“Don’t laugh, but I have a boy’s name,” I say. “My mom probably didn’t realize it when she let Dad name me. Whatever, it’s a nice name, I guess.”

“That’s ironic. Your father used to complain about having a girl’s name.”

I realize then that Yamazaki-san must be telling the truth about having actually been my father’s friend. Dad doesn’t exactly run around telling the world about his slight embarrassment about his ‘girly’ name (I think he gave me a boy’s name as some type of weird compensation).

“Still does,” I say.

“So, what is it? Your name?”

“Sousuke,” I smile. “Sousuke Matsuoka.”

He freezes again. As if someone has taken a picture of him and put it in front of me—as if there is no longer a real person sitting across from me. The color drains from his face and, after a few moments of this strange stillness, his fingers clench even more tightly around the cup. To the point that I’m afraid it might break. He’s looking at me, but he’s not looking _at_ me. He’s looking straight through me, and I feel for a second that he can see everything within my soul. There is a heart-wrenching anguish in his eyes, a fiery light I hadn’t seen before.

“Yamazaki-san? Is everything okay?”

He doesn’t move, even when I say his name.

“Do you need me to get you water?”

He snaps out of it then, slumping back in his seat and staring at the table with a blank, glassy stare.

“Your name is Sousuke,” he murmurs.

“I know it’s strange. Who names their daughter Sousuke, right? I don’t particularly mind, I think it’s a nice-sounding name, but Dad has always teased me about it. And when Mom found out she flipped. Why she didn’t do more research about Japanese names, I have no idea. She was a little too trusting of Dad, if you ask me.”

I’m rambling now, something I tend to do, but I catch myself and shut my mouth. Yamazaki-san hasn’t looked away from that spot on the table, hasn’t loosened his grip on the coffee cup. There is a look of such defeat, though it doesn’t befit a man of such commanding presence like him.

“Why did he name you Sousuke?” he whispers. I shrug, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair. I answer, even though I’m fairly certain he’s talking to himself at this point. He’s lost in his nostalgia now.

“He’s never actually told me. I’ve asked so many times and he always uses the excuse that he thought it ‘looked pretty on a birth certificate.’”

I smile, but Yamazaki-san is still staring at the spot on the table. As if there is something terribly interesting there that has grasped his undivided attention. I sigh. This is just what I need, I think. An old nostalgic man bothering me, off in his own world, when I’m trying to write this thesis. I don’t exactly have time to humor this man’s whims and I certainly don’t have time to comfort him. So, in this awkward silence, I turn back to my computer and continue typing quietly. I refrain from putting my headphones in. Rudeness has its limits, even for me.

Suddenly, as I try to adapt myself to his odd presence and concentrate on the words on my computer screen, I hear a strange sound coming from the person across from me. I look up and see something completely and utterly strange. This grown man now has a hand to his forehead, is rubbing his temples, and is crying. Quietly. So quietly I can hardly hear. But I can see his grand shoulders shaking, can just barely see the tears slipping from those droopy eyes.

I have absolutely no idea how to react.

I watch, dumbstruck, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. Did I say something? Did I come off ultimately ruder than I’d intended? Why is he crying? Now, with the sensitive emotions I also inherited from my father, I begin to feel a lump in my own throat. I can’t count how many times I’ve cried simply because I’ve seen my father burst into tears (which happens rather frequently).  

“Um...Yamazaki-san...?” I say softly. He doesn’t respond. His crying is not very dramatic crying. He seems to have a reasonable degree of control over himself. As if he could be crying much harder if he stopped using any restraint. “Is everything okay?”

Sniffling, Yamazaki-san looks up at me. I have never seen such a sad smile as the one on his trembling lips. I see an entire world of regret, guilt, everything a fifty-something year-old man might feel, in those eyes of his.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to humor an aging man like me, lost in his nostalgia,” he says. “It’s pretty rude of me to sit down at this table and cry, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. I truly don’t. He smiles more widely at me and, having regained most of his composure, takes a deep breath.

“You’re his spitting image,” he says. “That dumbstruck look on your face is exactly the same as his. As if I’m staring straight at him. Oh, but he never grew his hair out that long.”

As a reflex, I bring a hand up and run it along my ponytail, protruding from the top of my head. Even tied so high up, my hair is long enough that it falls across my shoulder. I’ve always liked growing my hair long. Perhaps another habit I inherited from my father.

“Well, thank you for putting up with me. You’re a very sweet girl, Sousuke. I’ll be off now.” He stands up and walks toward the door. Just before he leaves he turns over his broad shoulder and says, “And, please, don’t tell Rin you saw me. Have a nice day.”

My father’s name rolls off his tongue so easily.

And then he’s gone, and I am left with an inevitable curiosity building up inside me.


	2. 2

**2**

On the train ride back to my house, I can’t get Yamazaki-san out of my head. The droopiness of his eyes, the anguished smile he tried to use to mask some kind of strange regret that I am certainly too young to understand, the way that he said my father’s name. With a twinge of such a raw emotion that I can’t pinpoint it. It sounded as if he had said Dad’s name so many times, whether to himself or to others, that it had at some stage become a part of his tongue. That’s the best way I can describe it.

By the time I’m walking from the train station back to my house, this is much more than just curiosity. My entire life, my major, my thesis, revolves around my nosiness—my desire to discover the stories and histories of the people and events that made our world the way it is. Now, suddenly, remembering his outburst of emotion and surprisingly soft expression, I want to know Yamazaki-san’s story. Especially since, from what I can tell, it has something very specific to do with my father.

“I’m home!” I call as I open the door, stepping out of my shoes.

“Welcome back,” my father replies from somewhere inside. “Just in time for dinner.”

As I make my way to the kitchen, I see a familiar but unexpected face pop around the corner, and my face erupts into a smile.

“Surprise,” he says. The man sitting at my kitchen table, my father’s age, waves to me. He has thinning black hair swept off to one side, an extraordinarily calm expression, and eyes that are borderline frightening in their clarity and blueness.

“Haru-ojichan!” I wrap my arms around his neck as he plants a light kiss to my temple. He’s always smelled like pool water, too. But never like cherry blossoms, like Dad. Instead there’s a slight scent of mackerel, though that might also be my father’s cooking. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“How are you doing, Sou? Happy to be back in Tokyo?”

“Sure. It’s not as familiar as I thought it would be,” I shrug. I sit down beside him and together we watch my father cook. Haru-ojichan was my father’s best friend growing up, and he’s also a retired Olympic swimmer. I’ve known him for as long as I can remember.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” Haru-ojichan says. “But Rin loves it.”

“I’m a city boy at heart,” he throws over his shoulder with a wink.

“How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” I continue. “How’s Mako-ojichan?”

“Fine, fine,” he nods, and leans his head on his hand. “Wants to see you soon.”

“Tell him to get out of the country and come to the city for once.”

Haru-ojichan and his partner, Mako-ojichan, live pretty far outside of Tokyo, in the same place Dad grew up. Apparently, back when Haru-ojichan was an Olympic swimmer like Dad, he moved to Tokyo for a little bit. But Mako-ojichan went back to live at his old home after university to teach swimming. He still does, I’m pretty sure, though I haven’t seen him in a while. I haven’t seen Haru-ojichan in a while, either. He used to hang around our house like a freeloader when I was younger, but I suppose after I left for college in the States things changed.

“How’s America?” Haru-ojichan asks.

“Traitor,” Dad hisses.

“Says the one who swam for _Australia!”_ I spit back. “Ahem, it’s fine. I really like it. You should come visit me.”

“Do you plan on moving there?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what I decide to do after I graduate. I’ll probably come home for a little bit.”

“Oh, Princess, I never asked you,” Dad interrupts, stirring the stew. “Did you end up meeting up with Nagisa and Rei?”

Two other childhood friends of my father. I don’t know them quite as well because they moved to America to get married when I was still very young and have lived in New York for about fifteen years with their daughter, Mayu. Ryugazaki-san is a professor at Columbia University, and together with Hazuki-san they own a bakery that’s gotten pretty famous in the area. They visit sometimes so I’ve met them and spoken to them before, and to be honest, I wish that I knew them better. They’re a real riot to be around, especially Hazuki-san (he calls my father Rin-chan, which has always cracked me up), and Mayu is the sweetest thing.

“Yeah. I went to New York with my friends and ended up having dinner at their place.”

And then, as per usual, Dad and Haru-ojichan fall into a conversation filled to the brim with nostalgia about ‘the old days.’ It’s always inevitable. Usually, Dad likes to ramble and bring up funny stories and say, Do you remember that, Haru? And Haru-ojichan nods and gives a comment every now and then but he’s one of the few people who are very good at just letting Dad talk. I’ve only seen Haru-ojichan angry once, when I was younger. I don’t really remember why, but I do remember it was Dad’s fault.

As we sit and begin to eat, I consider asking Dad about Yamazaki-san, even though he asked me not to. My curiosity has been eating at me since this afternoon and, as someone who is constantly aching for knowledge and absolutely hates uncertainties, it is crushing. It is so distracting that I haven’t thought about my thesis for at least an hour now, which hasn’t been the case for months. I don’t realize that I’ve stopped talking and have been staring into space until Dad begins waving his hand in front of my face.

“What’re you thinking there, hun?”

“Oh, nothing. Thesis stuff,” I lie, deciding to indulge my conscience and keep my meeting with Yamazaki-san a secret. I glance over at Haru-ojichan, happily munching on his mackerel.

“Hey. Can we look at your old photo albums after dinner?” I ask.

They both look up at me, blinking. I bat my eyelashes and give them my best smile. The one my supermodel mother taught me.

“Um, sure, I guess,” Dad says. He runs a hand along his red, slicked back hair and tightens his ponytail. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I don’t know. You guys always talk about ‘the good times.’”

“Haven’t you already seen the pictures?” Haru-ojichan interjects. He and Dad look at each other, as if I’m not sitting right there and can see the secret conversation they’re trying to have.

“What is this, some kind of interrogation?” I sigh.

“All right, all right, jeez,” Dad sighs. “If that’s what you want, Princess.”

So after dinner, I grab Dad and Haru-ojichan’s wrists and drag them to the couch, and run to Dad’s room, to the cupboard where he keeps all of his old photo albums. Actually, Gou-obachan made them all for him; he isn’t much for arts and crafts and has always preferred that they do it electronically, but Gou-obachan was very insistent on making these. Which I, a sucker for sentimental things like this, am extremely grateful for now. I don’t even bother deciding which one and grab all of them, feeling the heaviness of an entire history in my arms. My heart is pulsing, though I can’t exactly say why. Confirmation, perhaps, that I am a historian at heart.

I squeeze myself in between Dad and Haru-ojichan, placing the pile of books on the table. Dust flies up, and Dad begins to cough while Haru-ojichan turns his head.

“Did you have to get _all_ of them?”

“Yes. We’re going in chronological order.”

“Your daughter’s crazy,” Haru-ojichan mumbles. Though I know his soft spot for me is rather crippling; if I ask him to do anything for me, he’ll bend over backwards to do it. It’s been that way since I was young. He used to force me to sit on his lap, stoic and unrelenting, to the point that I used to wonder if he were, in fact, my father. Dad used to complain that he would confuse me.

The first album doesn’t include a lot of Haru-ojichan, because it’s mainly from when Dad was extremely little. It’s silly pictures of him and Gou-obachan, with my grandmother (whom I never met) taking care of them. Gou-obachan and Dad could have been twins, both of them so little like that. There aren’t many pictures of my grandfather, because he died when Dad was only four, but surely he was the one behind the camera for a lot of these pictures. Then come the pictures of their entries into elementary school, where he and Haru-ojichan first met. They were on the same swim team, with Hazuki-san and Mako-ojichan.

“We were such good friends because we all had girl names,” Dad jokes. I refrain from mentioning in front of Haru-ojichan that a girlfriend I’d had in high school was named Haruka.

And I realize then, that for some strange reason, there are almost no pictures of Dad in elementary school apart from his time with Haru, Mako, and Hazuki-san. And not only that, but there are blank spaces in the photo album. As if the photographs that were once there have been removed.

“Hey, what about before this? Didn’t you have any friends before you met them? What pictures were here before?”

“Not sure, Princess,” he says smoothly. I look to Haru-ojichan, but he averts his eyes back to the photo album. There are no pictures of his birthday parties, no pictures of him at school, no pictures of him doing really anything but swimming with the Iwatobi Swim Club.

I decide to keep my mouth shut and open the next photo album.

These are pictures of Dad’s time in Australia. I don’t recognize a lot of people in these photographs because I’ve never lived in Australia and have only gone to visit Mom; I’ve met members of the Olympic swim team that were friends with Dad, but I’ve never met his Australian friends from his middle school days. It’s interesting seeing how small Dad was, seeing his host family (whom I actually have met). It’s strange to me that Dad grew into his adolescence in Australia and not Japan—it’s even stranger to me that he swam for the Australian Olympic team. His heart seems so rooted here in Japan, I can’t imagine that.

Now he’s in high school. Haru-ojichan, along with Mako and Hazuki-san, make their comeback. And now Ryugazaki-san is in the photographs, too.

“How did you all meet him, anyway?”

“Nagisa forced him into the swim team, even though he didn’t know how to swim.”

“Seriously?”

“Your dad actually ended up teaching him.”

“Wow, look at you, Dad.”

“Where was this picture taken?”

“Gou must have taken this. We went to an amusement park once—”

“And Makoto refused to go any of the roller coasters. Remember?”

“Sure, sure! And Nagisa puked _everywhere_ because he ate too much pizza and then rode on the rides.”

“Rei was livid.”

They all look so young and fresh.

“Oh, Princess, do you recognize this kid?”

“That one? Um...sorry, no. Who is it?”

“That’s Aiichiro.”

“ _That’s_ Nitori-san? _You’re kidding!”_

“Nope, that’s him. See, there are his moles.”

“Look at his hair! Oh my gosh, he was so cute.”

“Clinging to Rin, like always.”

“He was way cuter than you were, Haru-ojichan. You had a stick up your ass for your entire adolescence.”

“Ouch.”           

I met Aiichiro Nitori when I was a young girl, as well. Unlike Haru-ojichan, he had actually gone to the same school as Dad (and the same high school I had gone to). But seeing this picture of him is beyond belief; he’s nothing like that now. He works as a lawyer in the financial, high-end part of Tokyo, and he always seems very serious and no-nonsense. His hair is cropped now, and I’m guessing a growth-spurt happened somewhere along the line because he certainly is not as small now as he is in these pictures. He and my father are very good friends, and he still comes for dinner often. I do know, from Haru-ojichan’s stories, that back in the day Nitori-san was quite taken with my father.

“Haru! Do you remember this? When I swam with your team at the tournament and got you disqualified?”

I’ve heard the story a million times.

“How could I forget?”

“I’ve always felt guilty about that...”

“Don’t worry. Rei only cried himself to sleep for two weeks.”

“Shut up.”

And then there is another gap in the photographs; one that is much more evident. From his third year in high school up until his wedding photos, there is nothing with him. More removed pictures. It’s only Gou-obachan, along with random tidbits of Haru, Makoto, Hazuki-san and Ryugazaki-san before they moved to America. There are very scattered photos. He and Haru after the Olympics in Rio—walking Gou-obachan down the aisle and sobbing—posing with his trophies.

This time, I pretend not to notice.

“Gou-obachan was so beautiful,” I say, as we pause on her wedding photos. “She still is...but wow.”

“She gets her looks from me, you know.”

“Yeah, sure. And Momo cleans up nice, huh?”

Gou’s husband, Momo, threatens to beat me up if I ever call him ‘oji’ because he says it makes him feel old. 

“It took me forever to get his hair and clothes ready.”

“So he hasn’t changed much,” I laugh.

I take a long time looking at the wedding photos of my mother and father. Naturally, she is breathtaking—to be expected of an Australian supermodel. She has a very clever look in her eyes, and in almost every picture she is staring at my father with such fervor it makes my heart hurt. Her smile is bright and intense and it is the focal point of every photo, even when she’s in the background. I’ve always been a little bit resentful that I didn’t inherit more of her genes. I wish I were taller, skinnier, maybe had blonde hair like hers.

Dad seems happy in these photos. He’s smiling and his hair is much shorter and he looks great in a suit. He and my mother are dancing, laughing. They are happy together. I trace the lines of the photos with my fingers and wonder, What went wrong here?

“Haru-ojichan, you look weird in a suit.”

“He was a weird best-man in general,” Dad laughs. “You should’ve heard his speech.”

I pretend to hold a microphone and try my best Haru imitation.

“Rin’s cool. I like him. Mackerel is cool, too. And swimming. Swimming is cool.”

“Would you guys shut up?”

“Is that Hazuki-san?”

“Yup. He got drunker than all of us combined.”

“Aww, he’s such a cute drunk.”

“And a loud one. There’s Rei. He, unfortunately, also got drunk.”

“Makoto had to drive them home.”

“Mom is so pretty,” I muse. “Isn’t she?”

“She’s beautiful,” Dad says. But I hear something in his voice—the same thing I hear every time he talks about Mom. A reluctance, a hesitance. Some kind of regret. I know he doesn’t love her anymore, but I wish I knew what it’d been like when he did. I was so young when they got divorced that I have absolutely no idea.

“Guess who this little baby is?”

“It’s me, isn’t it?” The picture is of my mother, holding me in a hospital bed with my father at her side. He is, as per usual, sobbing and trying to smile at the camera while my mother, through her exhaustion, comforts him with a kiss to his temple.

“Just look at your chubby little cheeks!”

“Nagisa couldn’t get enough of you,” Haru-ojichan says.

“I was scared he was going to kidnap you from us.”

“And there’s Rei and Nagisa at the airport, heading to the States.”

“You cried like a baby, Rin.”

“He always cries like a baby.”

“You are both so mean to me.”

We go through my first steps, my first words, my first three birthdays.

“Look, that’s you in the hospital. Right after Akira was born.”

Akira is my younger cousin.

“You were so excited to hold him.”

“Even then he looked exactly like Momo.”

They live on the outskirts of town, in a cute little suburb with lots of grass and room to play because Gou-obachan thought that would be the best place to raise him, and Akira’s still my best friend.

The rest of the photos are of me and Akira growing up. And, after a while, my mother starts to disappear from most of the pictures. When she moved back to Sydney when I was four. We look through them and reminisce. But I’m no longer thinking about these photographs. I’m thinking again about the look on Yamazaki-san’s face, the way he’d said my father’s name, how he had cried right there in front of me.

“All right. Time to head back.” Haru-ojichan says, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re not staying the night?” I ask.

“No, not today, Sou. Maybe next time.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Haru. See you soon, mate?” Dad says, adding on the English at the end. Haru-ojichan and I both scoff. As he heads for the door, I see my opening.

“Ah, it’s dark out. Let me walk you to your car, ojii-san,” I say, sticking out my tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says with a wave of his hand. I open the front door for him and together, my father waving behind us, we walk out and down the long driveway where his car awaits.

“So. What do you want?” he asks, wasting no time. He’s always been able to see right through me, even more than Dad.

“Do you know anything about those missing photographs?”

“What missing photographs?”

“There are gaps in the photo albums. Pictures that just aren’t there.”

He shrugs, getting out his car keys.

“Haru-ojichaaaan,” I whine. But he won’t budge. So I pull my trump card. “I met someone interesting today.”

“Oh?”

“Said he knew my dad.”

“Sure he does.”

“What was his name again? Yamakuzi...Yamakazi...” I say, exaggerating every word very deliberately. Haru freezes, his hands on the door of his car. “Oh, that’s right. Yamazaki-san.”

He takes a deep breath and straightens up.

“Sousuke, don’t tell Rin.”  

“Does it have anything to do with the missing photos in the albums?” I insist. When Haru-ojichan doesn’t respond, I know that I’m right. “All right. Well, who is he?”

“Doesn’t matter. Good night.”

“Don’t be like this!” I grasp his arm and look up at him pleadingly, very aware that he will succumb to my every desire as he always does.

“I can’t tell you anything,” he says. But as he gets into the car, he shrugs his shoulders. “But I suppose I wouldn’t be able to stop you if you were to look through the box of photographs Rin keeps in the attic.”

“The...what?”

“Good night, Sou.”


	3. 3

**3**

Dad falls asleep on the couch while he’s looking through the photo albums and I clean up the kitchen. He loses himself, throwing comments into the air, and then it grows silent. The photo album is spread out on his lap, his head arched back and his hair a mess. I grab a blanket and take the photo album, helping him to lie down, and then I cover him with it. Not quite conscious, he pulls me down and kisses my forehead. I kiss his.

Then I wait about half an hour, until I know he’s truly asleep, and I grab a notebook and a pen and a flashlight and head up to the attic. Even though I grew up in this house, I’ve only been up here a few times, when Dad’s asked me to get one of his old trophies or something. It’s one of those old-fashioned, slightly frightening attics, with a single lightbulb hanging from the center like a spider from a thread. The stairs creak with each step, but I try to be as quiet as possible. It wouldn’t be easy to explain why I’m up here. Dad’s normally a heavy sleeper, so I’m not worried.

I open the squeaky door and pull the wire to turn the light on, greeted with dim orange lights and the musky smell of history. It’s a smell I love, a smell that makes my adrenaline pump. There are stories in this attic, and I live to read stories and learn about people. There must be so much in here about my father, my mother, the grandparents I’ve never met, me. In the middle of it all, I question why I haven’t been up here more. Perhaps then, Yamazaki-san’s sudden appearance in my life wouldn’t have been quite so dramatic.

From the floor to the ceiling, all around, there are boxes. Labeled with cryptic words: Samezuka, Down Under, Rio, Tokyo, Sou. Haru-ojichan and Akira’s favorite nickname for me. In the dimness, watching the specks of dust swim, I begin to creep around. I wish, as I stand surrounded by box upon box upon box, that Haru-ojichan had been a bit more specific about ‘the box of photos’ Dad keeps up here. There are a ton. But it seemed that Haru was talking about a specific box. I look for any type of clue that might direct me to the exact box I need, filled with missing puzzle pieces to complete a puzzle that I hadn’t really realized existed.

I look through the Samezuka box. Dad’s old uniform, a few certificates, some books. Nothing of interest. The ‘Down Under’ box is filled with souvenirs from his time in Australia. Gifts, maybe. Still not what I’m looking for. At one point I have to put the flashlight in my mouth while I search with both hands through the boxes, only to be met over and over again with frustrating emptiness. I remind myself to chew Haru-ojichan out the next time I see him.

After about an hour, I’ve skimmed almost every box. There’s only one left, so I figure it _must_ be the one. But the word written on its side confuses me. It’s my name. “Sousuke.” Written in pretty shabby handwriting. But in the other boxes, I’ve already found the old hidden photographs of myself. The trophies and ribbons of participation, my high school diploma, acceptance letters from colleges in the USA, old arts and crafts projects. There can’t possibly be anything left in this box, this last box, labeled just for me. There is a strange, foreboding feeling in my stomach. Twists and turns. I don’t know what it means, but I pull the box from its corner and I throw it open.

Split in half. On one half, a pile of pictures. There must be hundreds. On the other side, a pile of newspaper and magazine cutouts. They’re so old and dusty and ripped at the edges, and the historian within me flares up. I sit down. None of this stuff has anything to do with me, except for the article at the very top of the pile. The headline reads, “Olympic champion Rin Matsuoka welcomes new daughter, Sousuke, into the world.” There’s a picture of my mother holding me on the front.

I grab the pictures first. The entire pile, leaning it against the box. I turn over the picture on the top, hoping to find some kind of date on the back. There’s just a year. 2023. Two years before the year that I was born and 24 years before now.

It’s a beautiful photograph, a miracle that it’s even printed. Most photographs are kept digital, on computers and online scrapbooks. But for one reason or another, my father has stockpiled these photographs. Taken the time to print them out and label them and put them in this mystery box that somehow Haru-ojichan knows about. The thought of my father, hunched over a printer and scribbling notes on the backs of photographs, makes me smile.

There are two people in the photograph. One is my father. He looks so much younger. His hair is let down to his shoulders, such a nice shade of red. The exact same as mine, a little bit lighter and pinker than Gou-obachan’s. His smile is as large as I’ve ever seen, white teeth glistening and eyes narrow and sparkling. He looks like he’s just gotten out of the pool, wearing his signature bathing suit, bare torso (has he always been this muscular?) glistening with water. His hair is damp.

The other person is someone that I recognize, though on any other day I wouldn’t have.

It’s Yamazaki-san.

He looks younger, too. He’s wider than my father, especially now that I see them standing beside each other. A bit tanner, a bit more muscular. He’s wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt, through which I can see the brace on his shoulder. I can’t see the expression on his face. He has one arm wrapped around my father’s waist and his lips are pressed to his cheek. Dad actually looks a bit surprised. Yamazaki-san’s lips appear natural, easy on my father’s skin. Like they’ve been there thousands of times before.

Even in photographs of my father with my mother, I’ve never seen him look so happy.

My fingers begin to shake as they hold the photograph. It’s so beautiful. Have I ever even seen my father smiling like that? Have I seen him look that incandescent, ever? Not with my mother, certainly. Not in stories, not in old tabloids, not in photographs.

I should be honest with myself.

I’ve always suspected that my father had an affair. Something that I know nothing about, something that might have led to the fallout he’d had with my mother. In his days of glory, swimming in the biggest pools all over the world, claiming record after record and championship after championship, compiling the bronze and silver and gold medals that now line our shelves. I’ve always figured he must have had a lover—a clandestine romance, one that he tried desperately to hide from all the cameras constantly at his door. A rock that kept him grounded in the midst of his chaotic career as a professional athlete. Someone beautiful and affectionate to whom he could go home at the end of the day. Someone, I admitted to myself long ago, who wasn’t my mother.

If I remember correctly, 2023 is the year my father and mother got married. Twenty-four years ago.

The photographs are organized chronologically, so this picture on the top is the most recent one. I sift through to the very bottom.

They’re in elementary school in this photograph. It looks like the first day of school, both baring their gap-toothed smiles and high-waisted pants and victory signs on their tiny fingers. I sift through more of the photos. I can tell instantly. These are the photographs missing from the photo album. It must be why there are mysteries in Dad’s childhood, his adolescence, his competitions. This must be before he started swimming at Iwatobi with Haru-ojichan and the others.

I take all of the pictures out, and I take all of the newspaper and magazine clippings out. I organize them by year, separating them and forcing myself to examine each date in excruciating detail. My heart is close to beating out of my chest, I’m sweating, sticky, hot. It feels the way I imagine it might when someone who’s been climbing a mountain, slowly, steadily, maybe without realizing they’re climbing at all, is about to reach the top.

I always told myself that my suspicions of my father’s mystery lover were just the products of my overactive imagination. I’d never, ever mentioned it to him.

I look through the early years first. The pictures that my father kept out of his photo albums, of his elementary school adventures. It’s nothing terribly exciting, though the pictures are pretty cute; Christmas parties, birthdays, play-dates. In every single photograph my father, a small child, is accompanied by another child: dark hair, green eyes, not so quick to smile, it seems. Always by my father’s side. Then there’s a gap of a few years—the years, I realize, that my father lived in Australia.

Then the child in the photographs comes back. Older, of course. Yamazaki-san.

The first photograph I see after his return is dated the same month and year as one of the newspaper clippings that my father has, inexplicably, kept in pristine condition (maybe a little dusty). It’s a photograph of my father with Yamazaki-san, standing in what looks to be an airport. It’s a selfie, my father holding the phone in one hand, face close to Yamazaki-san’s and smile wide. He’s holding two airplane tickets in his other hand. Yamazaki-san is smiling, too, but his smile looks restrained. The headline of the newspaper clipping reads: _Best Young Swimmer in Japan Recruited for Australian Team._

 

* * *

 

_ July 2015 _

He’s pacing again. Sometimes he’ll sit down on the edge of the bed, or the edge of the chair, or on the floor, for a few moments, only to stand up and start pacing again. One end of the room to the other, a crumpled letter in his hands. He’s re-reading it, too. I can tell from the ways that his eyes are shifting. I like it best when he reaches up and runs a hand through his long, tangled-from-too-much-sleep hair. I’m sitting on the bed, cross-legged, leaning back against the wall with one headphone in my ear and my laptop in front of me. He knows I’m paying attention to him, even when I’m not looking at him. He would be crazy not to.

“What time is it?” he asks, his voice jittery. I lift my phone up and show it to him.

“Eleven forty-three,” I reply.

“Shiiiiiit.”

“Seventeen minutes,” I smirk.

He lets out a frustrated growl, face turned to the ceiling, and starts to ruffle his own hair. By that point, the letter in his hands has been folded and crumpled and read so many times that the ink is faded and the paper is ripped.

“Any progress?” I venture.

“What do _you_ think?” he sighs. “Would it really kill you to give me some advice?”

“Are you sure you want my advice?” I laugh. “This is a pretty big decision.”

“Just tell me what you think I should do.”

I smile at him, staying silent for a few moments, before I scoot over on the bed and pat the spot next to me. With another dramatic (melodramatic, overdramatic) sigh, he drags himself over and plops down beside me. I hold out my hand until he gives me the letter. I read through it. I’ve already read it before, and he’s read it out loud in my presence at least three times. I read through it anyway. It gives me an excuse to sit next to him on this bed longer.

“I’m too emotional right now,” he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Shocker.”

“Be my voice of reason, asshole.”

“All right, let’s think through this together.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You have a few options,” I continue, holding back my laughter. His pouts are always so earnest. “You’ve gotten a lot of calls from unis here in Japan that would kill to have you. So you could stay here, live in Tokyo, train to swim for the Japanese team, undoubtedly be the best.”

“Not necessarily,” he interrupts. “There’s Haru.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“You don’t even know if Haru is actually going to swim for the national team yet,” I say. “Even if he does, you’re better than he is.”

“Sou—”

“Just let me finish, all right?” I exaggerate my exasperated tone of voice, roll my eyes, until he bites his lower lip to hide his smile. Our knees our nearly brushing, we’re sitting so close. I can see every curl of his toes, every flex of his tense muscles, every tangle that I want so desperately to brush in his hair, every wrinkle in his forehead because he’s so stressed out. What would happen, I muse, if I were to reach up and smooth them out?

“Fine, fine,” he sighs.

“So, first option, you stay in Japan and _theoretically_ be the best. Pretty much automatically. Second option, you take the offer and go to Australia,” I say, holding up the letter. “You’re the one who talked to your old coach about joining, and he wants you. At the very least, it wouldn’t be too bad of a culture shock. You already know the language and the culture and you have contacts, blah, blah, blah.”

“But...?”

“ _But_ ,” I continue, “you would have to work harder to be the best there. Australia’s a killer team. Of course, that means you have a better chance of being the best on the world stage. Depends how far you wanna go.”

I already know exactly how far he wants to go, and I actually already know what he’s going to pick. But he needs to get there himself.

“Also...” I begin. And this I really hate to say, mostly just because I’m a jealous piece of shit. “Depends on how you feel about Haru.”

“Haru?”

“Sure. You’ll be on the same team if you stay here.”

“You really think that’s enough of a reason to swim for Japan?”

“It was enough of a reason to fuck up finals last year,” I say. I know he hates me bringing that up. He grimaces, avoids my eyes, but looks defeated.

“But if you want my honest opinion, with your skills, you should be in Australia. It’ll get you up onto the podium. Let Haru be the best here. Go be the best in the world.”

“Not so fast,” he grins. “There’s still you.”

“Me?” I snort, then rotate my shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t forget your promise. To work your way back to the top,” he whispers. His voice slices through the cynicism of my smile and digs into me, makes me ache. I hate it when he does this. Makes me think that I actually have a shot.

“We’ll see. Focus on you right now. You have five minutes.”

“Fuck.”

I push the laptop toward him. The email accepting a position on Australia’s national team is already drafted, open, ready to be sent. He has a few minutes before the deadline to accept is up.

“Up to you, Rin,” I say. I try to make my voice softer. “Whatever you choose I’ll support you.”

“I hate you so much sometimes,” he sighs, but there’s a smile on his lips. A blush in his cheeks.

He has two minutes.

“All right,” he finally says. He puffs his chest out, closes his eyes for a few moments, then grabs the laptop. “Guess I’m spending the next ten years of my life in Australia.”

He sends the email. The smile on his face is incandescent.

“Think I made the right choice?” he asks me.

“I do.”

“Hey, Sou.”

“What’s up?” I blink at him slowly, but the happiness in his face melts away into solemnity. The glint in his eyes is serious, now. The curve of his lips not so pronounced. I blink again. “What’s with that serious face?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. Smoothly. With so much certainty.

“You...what?”

“I want you to come with me. To Australia.”

“Rin, you’re not serious,” I scoff. “What business do I have in Australia with you?”

“Of course I’m serious. What are your plans here, anyway?”

I open my mouth, ready for a quick response, and I hate myself for the hesitation that follows. He keeps a straight face.

“I...I’ll go to uni. Or get a job, or something,” I say.

“Wouldn’t you rather come to Australia with me?”

The way he says it, like he’s worried that I just don’t want to be with him, makes me physically ache. My back hunches and I tear my gaze from his face.  

“And do what? Be your cheerleader?” It comes off much meaner that I meant it to.

“You could be, like, my coach, I guess,” he shrugs. His voice is much less certain now—I’ve shot him down, torn through his confidence with my jadedness. It’s not something I’ve never done before.

“Come on,” I sigh, softer now. “You know as well as I do you’ll have plenty of coaches down there. Not to mention how much of a burden I’ll be on you.”

“What? A burden?” Rin straightens up and leans forward. His expression, with furrowed brow and puckered lips, is a combination of anger and confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll distract you. You need to train really seriously and if I’m there—”

“Sousuke.”

The way he says my name has always been enough to stop me in my tracks, always been enough to make me swallow my words, hear my heart beat right in my own ears.

“I thought you would’ve realized by now. You know me better than anybody, you know the best ways to help me...I _need_ you to come with me.”

“Rin.”

“But if you don’t want to, then I won’t make you.”

“N-no, of course I want to.”

“Is it about your family? Leaving Japan?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Scared about having to speak English all the time?”

“My English is pristine, I’ll have you know.”

“Please, Sousuke?”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and brings his face close to mine. I can feel his fingers shaking, and I wish they would press deeper into my flesh.

“Please, come with me.”

There is no way I’ll ever say no. 


	4. 4

**4**

_ Present Day—2047 _

It’s strange to think that, at some point in his life, my father was in love with this man. Probably. There are enough photos of him for an entire lifetime, and I know my father. He’s sentimental and dramatic and if the photos of this person weren’t important to him he would’ve gotten rid of them long ago. What’s even stranger is that this man, the person shimmering in these pictures, is the same man who cried at my table earlier today. Who begged me to not tell Dad that I met him. Who looked at me and said, God, you look so much like your father.

My father must have loved this man far before and for far longer than he loved my mother.

I grab the next photograph and the next newspaper article. A photograph of my father, alone. Yamazaki-san isn’t in this one. Dad’s face is very red, his hair is very beautiful, he’s outside beneath a blanket of stars. He’s holding a bouquet of colorful flowers and a can of soda in his hands. He’s looking away from the camera, in the middle of turning his face, but I can still see his smile. I can imagine that it was shaky. It’s taken in the same year. 2015. The next newspaper clipping says, _Australia’s Swim Team: Powerful and Terrifying Newcomers._

 

* * *

 

_ August 2015 _

I click the stop button on the stopwatch.

“Fifty-two point two seven,” I say as his head breaks the surface. He takes a deep breath in, pushes his goggles up, stares up at me for a moment. I crouch down and repeat the number to him. His lips turn into a frown, he bangs a fist against the edge of the pool. He can hardly catch his breath.

“I need to break fifty,” he hisses.

“Listen. You’re still eighteen. Still another year before Rio. Don’t you think fifty is...unrealistic at this point?”

“Sousuke!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Fifty-one, at the very least,” he sighs. “You know what the record is? For the 100m butterfly?”

I know what the record is.

“What’s the record?”

“Forty-nine point eight two. Know who holds it?”

“Just gonna throw a name out there...Michael Phelps?”

“Michael _fucking_ Phelps.” He splashes the water, as if to create dramatic effect.

“It’s fine,” we hear someone say, in English. Both of us glance up and see the coach for the Australian team walking up to us. We’re in the middle of the Aquatic Centre in Sydney, where Rin has been training for about a month now. Other swimmers litter the pool. Freestyle over there, breaststroke over there, backstroke over there. A few guys doing a medley. “You’re at a good spot, Rin.”

“I have less time than I think,” Rin responds, also in English. “I need to step up my game.”

“Don’t stress yourself out. Just keep training, all right?” his coach continues. “Come the Olympic trials, you should be fine, mate.”

“Whatever you say.”

Coach nods at Rin, gives me an ambiguous smile, then walks off.

“See? You’re fine.”

Rin rolls his eyes at me and I see the entire world turning there.

“Why don’t you stop for today?” I suggest.

“No, no, I have to keep training. As much as I can.”

“Rin.” I reach down and pull his swimming cap off, before he can protest. Then I extend my hand down toward him. “Use me as an example, okay? Don’t overwork yourself.”

He glares up at me for a few moments.

“I’ll even take you out to dinner, Princess.”

“Bite me.”

He grabs my hand and lets me pull him up out of the water. He’s always the first one here in the morning, usually the last to leave. I snap my fingers at a guy walking by, and he tosses me a towel. I drape it over Rin’s shoulders and bring myself closer to him, rub his arms, keep my breathing steady to balance out his. I know what he’s feeling—he’s feeling like he’s not enough, he’s feeling like he’s hitting a wall, he’s feeling like he’s slipping back into that place of hating himself and hating everything. It’s been weeks since he’s been able to beat his personal best. I know what he needs, too.

“You’ll be fine, okay?” I whisper. He keeps his gaze directed toward the ground, but he’s listening. His fingers tighten on the edges of the towel. He wants me to keep talking. “You have time. Let yourself have it. You’ll get where you need to go. I’ll be here to get there with you—I’ll make sure you don’t hit a wall, like before. You’ll get there. I promise.”

He starts to nod.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I’m freaking out.”

“No apologies. Let’s just go get you dried up, all right?”

“All right. Thanks, Sou.”

We begin our trek to the showers. I keep my arm around his shoulder—selfish, I know—as we walk. It’s not totally selfish, though. At this point I know Rin well enough to understand what he needs and when he needs it. He’s exasperated and he’s frustrated and he appreciates that I have my arm around his shoulder. Maybe not in the way that I want him to, but he appreciates it, nonetheless. As we walk, I talk to him. I tell him how well he’s been doing—better than almost everyone on the team. I tell him how inspiring he is. So young to be so successful, so fast, so strong. While I speak, my voice crashing into his ears in powerful whispers, he continues to nod. Closes his eyes, swallows back what I can only assume is his doubt. We get to the showers.

“Take a long, warm shower,” I say. “And do your hair all nice. We’re going out to dinner.”

“What if I don’t wanna go out to dinner?”

“As your coach, it’s an order,” I smile. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“All right, fine.” He finally smiles, and I smile back. What else am I ever supposed to do when Rin smiles at me?”

* * *

 

I’ve been trying to gather my courage for tonight over the past year.

It has to be tonight, I reason with myself.

Otherwise, I’ll never do it.

It has to be tonight.

Before I get in over my head here in Sydney.

Before I lose my chance.

 

* * *

 

It’s a casual dinner. He wears those jeans that make his ass look amazing, with the tears in them, a white tank-top, his red checkered flannel. And, of course, his favorite necklace—the one with the rectangular pendant. I’ve never actually thought to ask him what it means. He looks really good, with his hair messy and wild and somehow silky-smooth. We go to a restaurant near the Aquatic Centre, a burger place that we’ve slowly started becoming addicted to. I think they’re recognizing us now. They give us a booth. I already know his order: double cheeseburger with cheddar, lettuce, onions, extra pickles, no tomato, medium rare, and a soda. I order the same thing.

We avoid the topic of swimming. I don’t want to stress him out. Or myself out, for that matter.

“How’s the culture shock?” he asks me. “Missing Japan?”

“Sure. It’s easier having at least one person that I know,” I reply.

“I remember when I first got here, I didn’t wanna leave the house for like, a month. I was so anxious and scared about it all.”

“Too bad I wasn’t here to ease the transition.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“At the very least, it’s a great way to practice my English.”

“I’m not gonna lie. I’m surprised at how good your English is.”

“Thanks, Shakespeare, that means a lot.”

He sticks his tongue out at me. I watch his hands wrap around his glass of soda and the sight of them makes my stomach turn. He leans forward on the table and I watch, waiting to see the indent that his elbows leave there. Wanting to ingrain in my mind every detail of how he looks right at this very moment. Ketchup on the corner of his lips, smile vibrant, shirt falling lightly off his left shoulder and hair falling like drops of rain around his eyes. I glance down at the bag I brought, sitting beside me. My nerves have never been this frantic.

How long have I known you, Rin?

- _at least ten years-_

Ten whole years?

Wow.

I really have loved you for a long time, haven’t I?

When we’re finished, I hand him a stick of gum. I pop one into my own mouth. I feel like I might cry. Have I ever even cried before? I think the last time I cried was the day Rin left. We walk outside.

“Wanna head to the pier?” I say. “It’s early. I wanna walk off that meal.”

“Yeah, okay. Lead the way, Coach.”

We head to the pier. We walk along it, me on the outside, Rin on the inside. His hand rests on the railing, it glides along, and I watch it. Watch his profile light up as the sun sets and the stars come out and he starts to glow, he glows, he really does, I see it. There are other people walking along the pier right now, but not so many that it’s irritating. There’s a calm, tranquil atmosphere. I entertain the idea of Rin reaching over and linking his arm through mine.

“I hate it when I can’t see all the stars,” he muses, turning up to the sky.

“There’s a lot up there tonight.”

“Yeah. Nights like these are nice.” He looks over and smiles at me. I lose my mind a little bit. “Thanks for dragging me out of the pool today, Sou. I needed that.”

“Of course. You’re prone to psyching yourself out.”

“True.” His steps start to slow. I follow his pace. “I’m just nervous.”

“About?”

“I’m nervous that my hard work will be for nothing. You know?” He stops and leans his arms against the railing. I stand beside him. Close enough that our elbows touch. My bag swings at my side.

“Sure.”

“I’m nervous that I’ll just train, and train, and train, and in the end, I...”

“You’ll end up like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“I want to get somewhere, Sou. I’m good enough. I know I am.”

“You are.”

“I want to be the best.”

“You will be.”

“Do you honestly think so?”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“Hey, Sousuke.”

“What’s up?”

He turns and looks at me. I lose my mind a little bit more.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says. His voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it. “To Australia. It means the world to me.”

I shrug.

“Not that big of a deal.”

“Of course it is. It’s a huge deal.”

“I’ll go anywhere you need me to,” I hear myself say.

Rin blinks. Stares at me motionless, silent. I watch his eyes scanning my face and I wonder what he’s thinking because, at this very moment, I have no idea.

“What?” he asks.

“I’ll go anywhere you need me to. Any time you need me to.”

I inch closer. A test. He doesn’t back away, doesn’t turn his eyes from my face.

“Sou...”

“If you told me to jump off this pier right now, I would climb onto this railing and ask if you want me to do a flip, too. I would, I really would.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stares, dumbstruck, so fucking gorgeous. I can see the opera house outlined behind him, but really, it’s nothing compared to him. Absolutely nothing.

“Rin,” I say.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft.

I don’t respond. I lean in closer, closer, as close as I can, until I feel his breath falling like flower petals on my lips. Then I lean that one inch closer and I kiss him. For a moment, I am more scared than I’ve ever been before—scared that he’ll realize what’s happening and pull away. Or, worse, push _me_ away. But he doesn’t. I kiss him, I taste the pool water and cherry blossoms and tears on his lips, and I wonder what he tastes from my lips. I’ll have to ask him one day. I let my lips linger for a few moments, I close my eyes, then I pull away. He’s staring at me. His lips are slightly open. His eyelids drooping. Everything about him dripping in starlight.  

“Rin,” I say again.

“Yeah?”

I turn and reach into my bag. I pull out a bouquet of flowers that I bought after practice, before dinner, while he was napping. And deeper from the bag I pull out a can of soda—the same soda that he just had at dinner. When I face him again, it’s no surprise to me that I see tears on his cheeks. Streaming.

“Sousuke,” he breathes.

“I’m in love with you, Rin Matsuoka.”

I hand him both the bouquet, and the can of soda. Then I step forward and I put my hands on his cheeks, I force him to look into my eyes because I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long and I want to see the glisten, the fire, the sparkle there, as I tell him.

“I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you, I’m so in love with you I can’t breathe unless I’m thinking about you,” I whisper. We ignore the people who walk by. I don’t care about them. Not even a little bit. “I don’t know what it’s like to not be in love with you anymore. I hate myself for not telling you before. I hate myself for being a coward until now. I love you, Rin.”

“For how long?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“For as long as I could understand what it means to love. But I was too scared to tell you.”

“When we swam the medley together?”

“Yes.”

“When you came back to Samezuka?”

“Yes.”

“When you...when you hurt your shoulder?”

“Especially then.”

“Even when I was in Australia?”

“Yes. Every moment. I’ve loved you every moment.”

The tears continue to spill, and I continue to wipe them. I open my mouth so I can swallow his words and let them sit in my stomach, like seeds, that will grow and blossom and make my soul bright and colorful.

“I’ve been waiting for myself to be ready for this moment.”

I kiss him again, gently, gingerly. His lips are more salty now.

“I love you, Rin.”

“You’re so cheesy,” he whispers. I can’t help but smile then, and press my forehead against his. “Why am I even crying over this? These stupid flowers...”

“I really couldn’t think of anything better.”

“You’ve never been the most creative.”

His laugh shakes my entire being, until I feel I might crumble there on the pier at his feet.

“You don’t have to tell me that you love me, too. But at least tell me there’s a chance one day you can. Or put me out of my misery and put me on a plane back to Japan.”

He starts to shake his head. Slowly, at first. And then faster, and then frantically.

“Don’t, please, don’t go back,” he says. “Don’t go back to Japan.”

“All right.”

“I love you, too. I love you, Sousuke.”

I close my eyes for a moment. I let the words sink into me, I let myself feel like I’m flying, let the fear disappear, to be replaced by absolute bliss. Nothing can hurt me now, nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because,” I reply with a grin, “I knew you would cry.”

I kiss him again. I kiss him hard. I kiss him with everything that I have. Everything.

 

* * *

 

While he puts the flowers in a vase with water, I kiss the back of his neck and pull his shirt from his shoulders. We don’t bother turning on the lights. We keep the curtains drawn, because the moonlight is beautiful drifting across the room. Painting the bed silver, creating waves on the carpet. His flannel falls to the floor and my palms encase his bare shoulders. I kiss his neck, wondering if he can feel from my desperate lips the emotions that I’m not eloquent enough to describe. His skin is like silk, like honey, like any beautiful thing anyone has ever kissed. I’ve imagined it tasting so many different ways. Pool water. Cherry blossoms. The soda that he’s addicted to. Roses. The way grass smells after rain. And it tastes like everything, everything. Everything my lips could possibly taste.

As I breathe into his skin, squeeze, step until his back aligns with my chest, he turns his head and I feel his breath on my cheek. I open my eyes so that he can feel my eyelashes. His hands are sitting on the table with the vase, his eyes closed, his breathing so much more steady than mine. My tongue begins to paint pictures, write the words ‘I love you,’ burn them into his neck. He breathes in and comes closer, leans back. I run my hands down his smooth arms and lace my fingers through his. I move my lips down to his shoulder, I kiss it lightly, I squeeze his fingers. I want to hear him breathe, see his eyelids flutter, watch my love fill him until it’s the only thing he can feel.

I take my hands and I put them on his chest. I pull him even closer. I want him as close as possible, want him so close that I can’t tell who I am, which heartbeat is mine, anymore.

“Sou...”

He lets himself be pulled back and arches his neck. My hand moves up, my fingers gently wrap around his neck. I press my lips to his jaw, his temple, his ear. I tighten my grip and I feel myself curve against him.

Suddenly, he pulls himself away from me. But only for a brief moment, so that he can turn. Put his hands on my cheeks and lean back against the table. I rest my hands on his hips and leave myself to be controlled, completely and utterly, by him. Physically now, as well as emotionally. His thumb runs along the course of my lower lip, pulls it down, and he sighs and I swallow his breath in my open mouth. Our eyelashes are clashing. His hair is sticking to the sweat on my forehead, and when I open my eyes and look down at him, he’s there. He’s there. In the flesh, he’s right there.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” I murmur. He smiles and sets me on fire. When I start to run my fingers through his hair, tuck it behind his ear only to bring it back and kiss it, he laughs. I press my lips to his because I want to taste that laughter. For the rest of my life, I will never experience anything like this. Like kissing him.

I tilt his chin up and our tongues meet, twist, travel together. I feel myself losing control, one hand on the back of his head and the other on the small of his back. His fingers dance at the base of my neck and he controls me like a puppet. The only thing I can hear are his deep, gravelly breaths, crashing into me. Ripping me apart.

_Rip me apart, Rin._

When we’re out of breath, when we’re desperate, he pushes me away. Then he grabs my hand and he pulls me toward the bed. His face is red, now, his lips wet, his hair messy from the tangles that I’ve created. He stands, looks me right in the eyes, and takes off his shirt. Over his head, tosses it to the ground. I fall to my knees, put my hands on the backs of his legs, press my lips to his stomach. I feel his fingers in my hair. Shadows dance on his skin, scattered in the silver light, sharpening the edges of his silhouette and making his eyes vibrant as a summer sunrise. I kiss his stomach again and I press my forehead to his body and I feel myself falling. He really is right here.

Still on my knees, I unbutton his jeans and pull them down. He steps out of them. I run my hands down his legs. I want to feel every part of him, every part in such excruciating detail. I kiss his thigh. Finally, he sits down on the bed, pulls my head up to face him.

“You love me?” he says, the tears returning to his eyes. “You really love me?”

I straighten up and I kiss his lips.

“I really love you,” I reply. I kiss his nose. “I love you.” I kiss his forehead. “I love you.” I kiss his neck and he laughs again. “I love you.”

I ease him back onto the bed and settle myself between his hips, put my thumbs against the wet corners of his eyes.

“I love you, Rin.”

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah?”

I smile down at him. He nods, strokes my cheeks, pushes his hips up against mine.

“Yeah.”

For the first time in my life, I feel like maybe life isn’t as unfair as it seems.


	5. 5

      **5**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I wish that my father had written notes on the backs of these photographs. Little things, about the weather or exciting events or just how much he loved this person.

The next photograph is dated a few months later. Still 2015, but toward the end of the year. I think by this time Dad has been in Australia for five months.

This photograph is only of Yamazaki-san. It’s a strange picture, like he’s surprised by it, but was expecting it at the same time. It makes me laugh. He’s in a gym, and the photograph is being taken from above while Yamazaki-san is doing bench presses. His muscles are almost too-well defined, sweat glistens on his bronze skin, there’s an ambiguous look in his eyes. The smallest smile tugging on the edges of his lips. His cheeks are slightly flushed, his hair matted. He’s amazingly beautiful.

 

* * *

 

_ December 2015 _

The alarm rings, as always, too early. Way too early.

I turn onto my stomach and bury my head in the pillow, and beside me, I hear him grumble. Grope for his phone in lazy, floppy attempts to hit snooze. Finally, the alarm stops. But I’m awake now. The room is shaded gray, not quite pitch black anymore now that it’s morning, and it makes me drowsy. As I let myself grow accustomed to being awake, I feel the bed rock as he turns, facing me, falling right back asleep as if the alarm had never gone off. It’s never fair, how breathtaking he looks in the morning. I inch closer, closer, until I can brush the hair back from his face and watch his sleepy sighs drift from his lips. I watch him for a few minutes in silence. Then, I lean forward and kiss him.

“Rin,” I whisper. “Hey.”

His eyes flutter open, and as soon as he sees my face, his brow furrows.

“What,” he mumbles. Strangely enough, Rin is much more of a night owl than he is a morning lark. I’ve know, for almost as long as I’ve been close to him, that he finds solace in the darkness, in the quiet of the night—which can get frustrating, since being a swimmer more often than not requires that he be up literally at the crack of dawn. He likes to stay up late listening to music. Likes to go on runs when there’s nobody around. Likes to keep me up, too. Which I generally don’t mind.

“Time to get up, babe.”

“No.”

I shrug and, without warning, rip the covers unceremoniously from the bed. As I toss them to the ground, he curls up, suddenly shivering in nothing but his briefs.

“ _Fuck_ , it’s cold!”

“Get up, you’ll get warmer.”

I sit up and stretch my arms, throwing a smirk in his direction. But while I stretch, he reaches his arms out and wraps them around my bare waist, buries his face into the skin of my back.

“You’re warm,” he says, voice muffled against my skin.

“You know what else will make you warm?”

“Hmm?”

“That run we have to go on before practice.”

He begins to shake his head, and his hair tickles me.

“Come on, you’ll feel better when you splash some water on your face.”

“Make me coffee.”

“Of course, Princess.”

It’s the same every morning. The same thing, and I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful that every morning, I get to watch his face just before he wakes up. I get to feel his arms wrap around me, feel his voice vibrate against my skin, get to lean down and press my lips to the top of his head before I get up and make him coffee because he loves my coffee. I know exactly how much sugar, how much cream, how hot. A friend bought me a Keurig for my birthday so I can make him all the coffee he wants.

I stand up from the bed and draw the curtains, then I rub my eyes to get rid of the last bit of grogginess. When I glance back at the bed, he’s already curled up again, pillow crushed to his chest. I give him these few minutes. He’s always so tired—either swimming or putting up with my bullshit. I go immediately to the Keurig.

I don’t hear him get out of bed while the coffee brews and, before I realize that he’s there, he weaves his arms beneath mine and leans into me, puts his lips in the center of my back.

“Good morning,” I say to him.

“Good morning.” He breathes in, then breathes out. “You’re always so much warmer in the morning.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Guess what?”

“Hmm? What?”

“I love you.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m making you coffee.”

“Maybe,” he coos, rocking back and forth. “Or maybe I’m just saying that because you’re amazing in bed.”

“I’m fine with either, really.”

“How about we just stay in today, Sou?” he murmurs. “We can have coffee, and fuck, and not think about all the swimming practice I have to do.”

“Good luck getting to Rio that way.”

“I don’t know, I feel like fucking is really good exercise.”

“Too bad we can’t compete in the Olympics. We’d win hands down.”

“Gold.”

“Double gold.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“I’m making it a thing.”

“You’re weird. What time is it?”

He reaches for the cup of coffee I have in my hands, and I let him take it. Not without a kiss to his lips first. Then I check my phone.

“Five thirty,” I reply.

“Practice isn’t until seven.” He takes a huge sip and puts the coffee back on the table.

“Late start today. Lucky you.”

“You know what a late start means?”

He purrs the words into my ear. Goosebumps line my spine when his tongue runs along the rim of my ear, and his fingers tease the edge of my boxers. I close my eyes and get lost in the world of his fingertips.

“We’ll be late,” I whisper.

“Mm, you’ve never had problems satisfying me quickly.”

He makes it impossible to hold my cup of coffee. I put it down against the table and lean against it, breathe out, as his hand moves down into my boxers. He nibbles gently on my earlobe, moves his hand further and further. His fingers tease me, tantalizing, dancing in unfairly graceful movements. His tongue traces a line down the side of my neck, presses against the flesh of my shoulder blade. I can’t help but smile. Can’t help but sigh a heavy, deep sigh when he grabs my cock and, with his other hand, pushes my boxers until they sit around my ankles.

“Doesn’t seem like it should take too long,” he whispers.

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles, his voice swimming along my skin, and he moves his hand up along my rising erection. I lower my face, tighten my grip on the edges of the table, feel my voice caught in my dried-up-throat when he presses his thumb to its head, then runs his palm back down to its base. His other hand is running up and down my spine and his lips push over and over again into my back. I can feel every flick of his tongue, every flick of his wrist as he moves his hand up again. I force myself to keep my eyes open, so I can watch him move me in rhythms that steal my breath away. I watch as his hand presses up, then back down, watch his thumb press and release, dry then wet. Heat spreads through my body and the pleasure builds as he moves faster, faster.

“Ah.”

He takes me to the edge. To the point that I’m starting to go crazy—he knows that, too. He knows that I’m losing my mind now, that my body is tingling, that I’m driven insane by his hand around me and the head of his cock brushing against my lower back.

I whirl around, put my hands at the base of his neck. His cheeks are red and his lips are open and ready, tongue sitting on the edge of his lower lip. I thrust my lips against his and feel his muffled groan vibrate against my tongue, push it as far into him as I can. I’m trying to taste the back of his throat, trying to reach so far down that he can feel me in every crevice of his body. By now, I’m rock-hard. And he is, too. When his hands start running up and down my back, I lose myself more. I push him back, further, further, further, until I hear him slam against the wall. Then I push him harder. Move my hands down the lengths of his arms and wrap my fingers around his wrists. Pin them to the wall and force his chin up. Kiss his neck, suck on the thin skin, bite it until I hear him moan. My chest is heavy against his, I know. His breath is raspy, his fingers clenched into fists. He lets me push him, until neither of us can push any harder.

“Sousuke,” he moans, loud and clear and unashamed. I bite his neck and he cries out and when I look up at his face, I see his eyelids fluttering, see the smile playing on his wet lips. My hands still pinning his wrists to the wall, I bring my mouth to his ear.

“You want me to fuck you?” I hiss. His knees buckle. He starts to nod. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Fuck me,” he responds. His voice is choppy and breathy and it makes me see stars.

“Hard?”

“Rip me apart.” He moans again when I push my hips up against his. “Fuck me hard.”

Sometimes, Rin and I make love sweet and slow and gentle.

Other times, like today, we make love hard and fast and leave red marks on each other.

I pull away just for a moment. Just long enough that I can whip him around, press his chest to the wall, use one hand to pin both of his hands above his head. My other hand wraps around his neck, my fingers trace hard and fast the line of his lips. I push, push, until his cheek starts to turn red and his mouth is open, his tongue wrapping around my fingers. I remove my hand for just a moment, reaching desperately for the nightstand around the corner. I grope for a few moments, open the drawer, pull out the condom. I bring it to his lips and he bites it open for me. I slip it over my dripping, iron cock, press my chest to his back and push my tongue between his lips. We’re messy today. He spreads his legs. Slowly, at first, I enter him, using my free hand to steady his hips. He sticks his ass out, and his entire body trembles as I push further into him.

I thrust once, hard, then grab a fistful of his hair and pull his head back. He cries out, and I run my hand down his face.

“You like that?” I murmur into his ear. I thrust again, drown in his moans.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

I pull out, until only the tip of my cock sits at his entrance, I hear him let out his breath, then I thrust all the way back in. His back arches and he cries out again.

“Harder,” he groans.

“What was that?” I tease, sweating now, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“Fuck me _harder_.”

I fuck him harder. I push in and curve into him, hitting the spot I know sends him to his highest point. We’re drenched in sweat. He, pressed against the wall and crying out with each thrust; me, moving faster, desperate to hear him say my name in a voice that could send me straight to fucking hell.

I fuck him hard, hard, harder each time he asks me to. I’m sure the neighbors can hear now. We don’t care. We’ve never cared.  

“Sousuke, I’m—!”

He comes all over the wall, and I dig my fingers into his flesh as I thrust one more time, stiffen, reach my climax, too. Once I pull out, he slumps to the ground, palms against the wall, and I follow him down. I want to hold him, I want to kiss the marks that I’ve left on him. I want to whisper sweet things in his ear and ask him if he’s okay.

“You okay?”

He nods, letting his back fall against my chest.

“Shit, babe, where did you even learn to fuck like that?”

“A lot happened after you left for Australia.”

“Spare me.”

I squeeze him, rock him back and forth, kiss the hickeys I’ve left on his neck and blow into his ear.

“Satisfied?”

“Mm, very.”

“Good. Then finish your coffee. We have to go on that run.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“Yeah?” I kiss his temple. “Well I love you all the time.”

“Jesus, you’re so corny. Fine. I love you, too.”

“Even when I leave red marks all over your back?”

“Even then.”

“Even when you know you’re gonna get shit for all those hickeys?”

“ _Even_ then.”

“Even when you’re not gonna be able to walk right?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“But I’m your asshole.”

“Yeah.” He turns to kiss my lips with that breathtaking smile. “All mine.”    

 

* * *

We go on our run. Then we go to the locker rooms, we shower, Rin puts on his swimsuit and I help him stretch before practice. But, with all the other swimmers meandering around, we keep our distance—we decided that it’s best, for now, to keep our relationship a secret. Rin has other things to worry about, especially with Olympic trials in six months. He doesn’t need these people up his ass about me. I understand that.

But I can’t help feel like there’s another reason.

I haven’t pressed the issue, though.

Like I said. He has enough to worry about.

When he heads to the pool, I tell him I’ll catch up with him at the gym later.

“What? You’re not coming to practice?” he asks.

“As much as I love sitting on the edge of the pool watching you swim, I have my own shit to do,” I tease. He pouts. “I have to find a job, Rin. You know, to pay rent? And buy food?”

I’ve been living off my savings for the past five months while on my job hunt, but I’m starting to get desperate. With just a high school degree, though, not many people in Australia are willing to hire. I’m starting to resign myself to a job in retail, or at a local grocery store.

“Fine. I’ll text you when I’m finished and we can go lift.”

“Sounds good—” I catch myself. Sounds good, babe. Love you. But there are people around. (We’re not even sure that they speak Japanese, but better safe than sorry, I guess.) He sees my hesitation, sees the words caught in my throat, and smiles.

“See you later.”

I love you, too.

Over the next few hours, I gather a few job applications. My English is good enough that I can easily communicate, and I’m even starting to pick up an Australian accent, but my looks are enough to make me stand out.

“You Chinese, mate?”

“Japanese, actually.”

“Right, right.”

When Rin finally texts me, relief washes over me. I’m tired of this, I need to sweat it out, need to feel the tension in my flexing muscles and the sweat rolling down my face. I walk back to the aquatic centre and together, we make our way to the weight room.

“How was practice?”

“Fine. Still can’t beat my record.”

“You’ll get there”

“Yeah, whatever. How’s your shoulder?”

“Feeling fine. Spot me?”

An hour later, Rin is doing circuits. I’m at the lat pulldown. I can see him in the mirror. High knees, burpees, lunges, ladder training, the works. I love it when he ties his hair like that. It makes me smile. My smile disappears, though, when he stops in the middle of an exercise and grabs his knee. I’ve seen that look before—I’ve seen it in myself. When I hold my red, swollen shoulder and my heart falls.

“Shit.”

I hurry to him, put my hands on his shoulders, force him to sit down. He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw is clenched, but he’s in more pain than he’s letting on. I’ve hid my own pain enough times to know.

“Just calm down, all right? Let’s get you some ice,” I say to him, my voice hushed. He’s panicking. I panicked the first time, too.

I do what I was told to do. I get him ice, press it to the injured area. I try to remember the little tips and tricks from physical therapy when I tell him to lie down and start to massage his knee. We’ll have to go to a doctor, I tell him. I ask him to call his coach.

He doesn’t say anything to me the whole time. He just bites his lip and nods.  

After what seems like hours, his coach arrives, athletic trainer in tow. I stand aside, though I remain with Rin, as he gets checked over.

“It looks like just a minor injury, thankfully,” she tells him. I see his face fall in relief. God, I want to hold his hand. “I’ll wrap it up for you. Be careful with it the next few weeks. Don’t overwork yourself.”

He nods. Then, the trainer looks up at me. I blink.

“You’re the one who took care of him before we got here?”

I nod.

“Well...you did a good job,” she smiles. “You ever consider going into athletic training yourself?”

“Oh, uh...”

“Sou, that’s a great idea!” Rin chimes. “Until you get back into swimming, at least.”

“Doesn’t that require more school?”

The trainer shrugs, stands up, looks me in the eyes properly.

“Sure. You’ll need a bachelor’s degree, and then you’ll need to pass a certification test.”

“Right.” I glance at Rin. The idea, I’ll admit, had crossed my mind before. Especially when Rin decided to swim for Australia. I never want what happened to me to happen to him. “I don’t think I can afford more school right now. Even though the idea is appealing...”

I guess whoever’s up there is smiling down on me this particular day.

The trainer looks over at the coach.

“Hey, we’re short on athletic trainers anyway, aren’t we?” she asks him. He nods.

“All right. How about this? We’ll pay your way through school if you sign a contract to work with us when you get certified,” he says to me.

“Wh...are you serious?” I gape.

“Dead serious. Not a light contract, though. Six years, at least.”

“I can do that,” I say instantly.

“We can enroll you in a fast-track program that gets you your bachelor’s in...what, a year?”

“ _A year?”_

“It’ll be a lot of work.”

“You can handle that, right, Sou?”

His coach extends a hand.

“What do you say?”

Rin nods to me, smiles, and I feel a weight lifting off my shoulders. A job that I would actually enjoy doing, a job that would make me feel fulfilled, a job that would let me actually help him. A job that would let me stay in Australia with him.

“You have a deal.”

I shake his hand. 


	6. 6

**6**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I check my phone. It’s almost two o’clock, but I’m not tired. In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m wide awake, my heart is pounding. I’m trying to scribble notes into my notebook. Descriptions of every photo, the dates, the newspaper clippings that accompany the photographs. I’m trying to piece everything together and, to be honest, it’s not hard. It’s plain to see what it all means. But I’m nervous about putting all the pieces together, nervous to see the final image. I don’t want to believe that my father ever loved someone other than my mother, and yet, it’s something I’ve known my entire life. When I was younger, I vaguely remember my father being surrounded by rumors of a scandal. Suspicions about his divorce tainted the way that I saw my parents.

I keep writing. I consider picking up the phone and calling Haru-ojichan, but I think better of it. He’s sleeping, I’m sure, and even if he weren’t, he wouldn’t answer my questions. So instead, I shoot a text message to Akira. Like me, he’s prone to staying up late. It’s a simple message. Are you up? As I wait for his response, I pick up the next photograph. I start to laugh when I see it—I recognize the look on my father’s face, and when I look at the date, I recall the story he’s told me so many times about this day. July of 2016, when he participated in his first Olympic trials.

“I was so nervous,” he always says, “but somehow, I managed to push through. God knows I was emotionally unstable enough already, I probably couldn’t have handled a loss that day.”

Dad is on Yamazaki-san’s back. He’s pumping his fist in the air, waving his goggles, and Yamazaki-san is laughing as he struggles to hold my father on his back. They both look ecstatic, vibrant, youthful and beautiful. Just looking at the picture is invigorating. The newspaper clipping is a headline that reads _Australian Olympic Team Chosen: Who to Watch Out for in August_. A profile is drafted of my father, his statistics, his fastest times. Details about his Japanese background, his family, the whole nine yards. There’s nothing written about Yamazaki-san, though. He’s not mentioned at all.

 

* * *

 

_ July 2016 _

“Hey, look at me. Only me.”

It’s dark in our apartment. He’s already wearing his favorite swimsuit, has his hoodie on, is wearing flip-flops. It’s early in the morning, and I know he hasn’t slept. He’s sitting on the bed, leaning his arms against his thighs. His body is shaking a little bit. I’m kneeling on the ground, and I’m holding his face in my hands. Pressing my forehead to his. Whispering to him, forcing him to look into my eyes.

“Am I ready for this?” he asks.

“You’re ready for this,” I answer. His eyelashes brush my cheeks. “Your times are better than ever. You’re the fittest you’ve ever been. You’re going to be fine.”

“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“This is real. This is _real_.” I put my lips on his forehead. He reaches up and weakly grasps my wrists. “One year ago, we were just arriving here. Remember? And now look at you. You’re ready to swim in Australia’s Olympic trials. You’re here, Rin.”

He smiles, and he laughs. It’s a combination of a sob and a laugh, really, as he leans harder against me.

“I’m losing it, Sousuke.”

“You’re ready for this. You’re ready, okay? I promise. You’re strong, you’re beautiful, you’re going to be fine. I promise you.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Come on. You need to go warm up.”

“Okay.”

I kiss his forehead again, then I stand up. I grab his bag for him, with his swimming caps and his goggles and his extra swimsuits and his water bottles and his random can of soda. I start to move toward the door, but he stops me. Grabs my sleeve and pulls.

“Wait, Sou,” he says softly. I pause. In that moment, he holds my hand in his, brings my palm to his lips. “I love you.”

I smile at him. I know that saying he loves me helps calm him down.

“I love you, too, Rin. More than I can ever describe.”

He stands up, I kiss his lips, and we make our way to the aquatic centre.

“I’ll be standing here the whole time, all right? When you’re feeling scared, or nervous, listen for my voice. I’ll be calling your name,” I tell him while he puts his swimming cap on. Now that we’re at the pool, now that we can smell the chlorine and are surrounded by other swimmers and officials and the rising sun, he’s gained more strength. There’s more color in his face, more energy in his movements, a smile constantly tugging on the corners of his lips. He looks ready. He doesn’t need my help at this point.

“Thanks,” he replies. He puts his goggles on, snaps the back the way he always does. “Hey, you think he’s watching?”

“What?”

“My dad. Do you think he’s watching?”

He puts the goggles over his eyes and grins at me. Even through the goggles, I see his gaze flicker up toward the ceiling.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Gotta make him proud, then, huh?”

“You already have.”

“So sappy,” he laughs. It’s always so hard for me to stop myself from telling him that I love him in front of everyone when he laughs like that. Even now, after almost a year. We’re used to speaking to each other in English when we’re in public. Still, nobody knows that I’m in love with him. The weird kid who works at the grocery store down the street, always hanging around the pool, taking online classes—he’s in love with Rin Matsuoka.    

He’s swimming the 100m butterfly, 200m butterfly, 200m individual medley, and (no doubt because he knows Haru will most likely qualify) the 200m freestyle. He has to, first, swim at least as fast as the Olympic Qualifying Time. He also has to be in the top two from the Australian team to swim that event at the actual Olympics. I’m not worried, of course. Rin has always worked best under pressure, and I’ve seen every single inch of his progress over the past year. He’s ready.

He swims the 200m freestyle first.

He comes in second and qualifies—his time is 1:47:01.

He doesn’t cry just yet. He needs to swim three more events. He gives a short interview for the local media outlets. They’re insignificant.

The next event is the 100m butterfly. His best and favorite event. And, for some reason, the one he’s had the most trouble with lately. I stand at the end of the lane and I call his name while he swims. His form is pristine. He slices through the water, flies, his muscles ripple and each time he moves he takes a piece of me with him, carries it, lets it sink to the bottom of the pool.

He scores a personal best and comes in first.

51.36.

Faster than the qualifying time by a second.

He hugs me, hard, when he sees his time. I hold him as tightly as I can, and I don’t care very much that he’s soaking my clothes. The next event is the 200m butterfly.

He comes in second.

1:55:69.

It’s not his best time, but it’s good enough.

That’s three events, I tell him, before he even does the individual medley. Three events in which he’s going to compete at the 2016 Olympics in Rio. Finally, he swims the individual medley. Things don’t go as well—he comes in fifth and fails to qualify.

At this point, though, it doesn’t really matter.

Rin becomes, within his first year, the youngest Olympic swimmer since Ian Thorpe to compete for Australia in as many events. The 100m butterfly, 200m butterfly, 100m freestyle, and, finally, the first swimmer in the 4x100m medley relay. Swimming butterfly, of course.   

As soon as he finishes the individual medley, he climbs out of the pool and begins to sob. I’m there, letting him fall into my open arms, as we become surrounded by the media. They’re holding out cameras and microphones and asking question after question. Rin doesn’t even notice. His face is buried in my neck, and his body trembles with his sobs. Other swimmers join the fray, and the aquatic centre becomes a place of celebration.

“You did it, Rin,” I whisper to him. I’m so grateful, so fucking grateful, that I get to be the one holding him at this moment. “You’re going to Rio.”

He can’t respond.

 

* * *

 

Other members of the team invite us out to celebrate, but Rin refuses, telling them he’s too exhausted. It’s not a lie, either. He’s spent, emotionally and physically, so we spend a quiet night back in the apartment. We order pizza, because he rarely gets to it, put on a stupid movie, drink a lot of beer. When I go into the kitchen to make tea, he calls his sister.

“Gou—oh, you already heard? Really? Yeah, thanks, I...You’re gonna come, right? To Rio? Obviously! Oh, fuck, I forgot to call him. Thanks. Yeah, talk to you soon. Love you, too.”

I pretend, for the moment, that I can’t hear him. A minute after he hangs up, I hear the FaceTime ringtone go off. He answers it. I know without having to look back who it is.

“Haru!”

“Hey, Rin. How are you?”

“Tired. We don’t talk enough, you know?”

“I know.”

“How are you?”

“Good. Also tired.”

“Have you looked at the Australian trials?”

“No. I wanted to ask you about them in person.”

“I haven’t looked at the Japanese ones, either.”

“So? How’d they go?”

Haru’s voice is grainy through the phone. I glance over my shoulder and see his face on Rin’s phone screen. He hasn’t changed at all. I can’t push away the pangs of jealousy I see at the sight of him. He’s always had a place in Rin’s heart that I can’t understand. Even when Rin and I swam together, I knew that Haru was the better motivator for him. He’s connected to Haru in a way that we can never be connected. And for that, I hate Haruka Nanase.

“You first,” Rin persists.

“Fine.” Haru takes a deep breath. “100m freestyle, 200m freestyle, and the 4x100 medley relay.”

“That’s incredible! Not that I’m surprised.”

“Thanks, Rin.”

“Are you excited?”

“I mean...I think so? I don’t think it’s really sunk in.”

“I get that.”

“So? What about you?”

“100m butterfly, 200m butterfly, 200m freestyle, and the 4x100 medley relay.”

“You’re amazing.”

Rin laughs. Haru laughs, too. They’re laughing together and I’m alone in the kitchen.

“Looks like we’ll be competing against each other, huh?” Rin taunts.

“I expected as much. We might not even end up competing against each other if one of us doesn’t qualify for the finals.”

“Oh, please, like that’ll happen.”

“You shouldn’t get cocky now. It’s dangerous.”

“All right, sorry, Mom.”

Then, Rin pauses, and looks at me as if just remembering that I’m there.

“Sousuke! Come say hello to Haru.”

I walk over to the bed and fit my face in next to Rin’s.

“Hey, Haru.” I force a smile to my face because I know it’s what Rin wants.

“Hi, Sousuke. How are you?”

His eyes are too blue.

“Good. I miss Japan, actually.”

“I’m sure Japan misses you, too.”

He’s way too pretty.

“How’s Makoto?” Rin asks. “And Nagisa, and Rei?”

“Good, all good. Makoto’s asleep, but I’ll tell him you said hello.”

“Great!”

They start talking about things that I can’t relate to, so I go back to the kitchen. I lose track of how long they talk. Long enough for me to make tea, let it steep, making more tea because I can’t bear to go back to bed.

Finally, I hear the good nights.

“See you in a month, I guess,” Rin says.

“Yeah. Crazy.”

“Yeah.”

“Good night, Rin.”

“Night, Haru.”

I grab the cups and go back to bed. I kiss Rin as I hand him his cup, then crawl into the sheets and put my head into his lap. I’m not in the mood for tea anymore. I’m acting like a child, I know, but the very most I can do is hide it from him.

“Tired?” he murmurs. He starts running his fingers through my hair. I nod, leaning heavily against his thighs. I close my eyes and concentrate on the rhythm of his movements, of his breathing.

“You were so great today, Rin.”

“I can’t believe it’s actually happening. What I’ve been dreaming about for so long.”

“If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“Thanks for being there, Sousuke. It means the world.”

“Mm.”

He leans down and kisses my temple. Lets his lips sit for an eternity, leaving an invisible but permanent mark on my skin.

“Rin,” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me how much you love me.” It’s immature, it’s childish, but I need to hear him say it. I need to hear him tell me how much he cares for me, to ease this aching in my heart.

“I don’t even know how to describe it,” he sighs. “I mean, it’s a lot.”

“Try.”

“More than I love winning races. More than I love swimming in general, actually.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“So if you had to choose either me, or swimming, you’d pick...?”

“You, dumbass.”

“Liar.”

“Never.”

I’m starting to fall asleep, there in his lap. His words are soothing me. Calming me. I’m so proud of him, so in love with him...does it really matter that I’m jealous? What am I jealous of, again?

“You’ll come to Rio. Right?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say.

“I finally get to swim on the world stage. For Dad.”

“And for you.”

He chuckles, and then we curl up in the sheets together.

“And for me.”  

We’re drowning in love.

Or, at the very least, I am. 


	7. 7

**7**

_ Present Day—2047 _

My phone lights up in the darkness, so I pick it up. My back is starting to hurt from hunching over these piles, from reading these newspaper clippings and examining in every excruciating detail the expressions on my father’s face. As I unlock my phone to check Akira’s text, I lay on my back.

As per usual, yes. Sleep is for the weak. Whatcha up to?

Looking through some old photos in the creepy attic.

Ooh. Any embarrassing photos of Ma or Pa?

Not yet. Keeping an eye out.

You gotta send them to me so I can blackmail them okay

All right

Lunch tomorrow?

Sure. Hey, question

What’s up?

Have you ever heard the name Yamazaki?

Nope. Someone in Rin-ojichan’s photo albums?

Yeah. Just curious.

I sit back up turn my phone over. I don’t want to get distracted anymore looking through the photos. I can predict what the next ones are: Rio, 2016. The first Olympics that my father competed in and, as it turns out, his first international swimming competition ever (of many in his future career). I’ve seen the pictures. With Haru-ojichan, wearing the Australian Olympic uniform from 2016, the selfies and the pictures with his teammates. So many years ago, it seems. Not to my surprise, the next newspaper clipping I find is an Australian one. _First-time Japanese Swimmer Proves An Asset for Australia._ The accompanying photograph is probably the most beautiful I’ve seen yet. I don’t know who took it, or where. It’s in a dimly lit room, maybe an apartment or a hotel room. It shows the profiles of Dad and Yamazaki-san. My father is wearing three medals around his neck. Though I can’t see below their chests, it’s evident from their positions that Yamazaki-san is holding my father up by the waist—Dad’s arms are around his neck, their faces close, both of them smiling.

They’re not just smiles, though. The kind of smiles you see strangers give each other on the street, or friends to friends, or a parent to a child, even. I can see love, passionate love and affection, written on their lips as they smile. I can almost see their breaths intermingling in that small space between them. I feel, suddenly, as I look at the photograph, tears starting to rise in my eyes. That doesn’t make sense, I try to tell myself, this man has never even been involved in my life. But I don’t need to know his story to feel just how much love is in this picture. It hurts.

 

* * *

 

_ August 2016 _

Just walking into the Village is an experience. To think that someone made these buildings, sectioned off an entire portion of the city, just for us, is daunting. I get stopped at the entrance but they let me in when I show them my athletic trainer’s card. Rin’s confidence is enough to get him in without them even bothering to check.

The opening ceremony is overwhelming and beautiful. I find myself fixated on the lights, the dances, the people. As I sit, on the edge of my seat, waiting for the Parade of Nations. Australia, obviously is one of the first nations. I can’t say I’m a huge fan of the uniforms—the gray blazer, yellow tie, white shorts, white shoes. Not the best colors on Rin. But, obviously, he looks good anyway. Stands out. His smile lights up the stadium. Even from where I’m sitting, I can see the excitement in his eyes—I know how often he’s imagined walking in this parade. He’s dreamed of the stories his father would’ve told him if he’d managed to get here. And now he’s here himself. My heart swells when I see him walk past. See his fellow teammates stop him, hold up a selfie stick. He’s the only one who gives a peace sign. He’s the brightest of all of them.

Japan comes a little bit later. As original as can be: white pants and a red blazer. Each athlete holds a little Japanese flag and a little Brazilian flag. I hadn’t been expecting an emotional response in myself but, when I see the colors, when I see the white flag and the vibrant red circle in its center, I feel a pang of sadness. I haven’t been back to Japan in over a year. I miss it. That’s not something I can deny. As they walk past, I almost don’t notice Haru. He’s blending in, face as stoic as ever, waving the flags slowly. Undeniably beautiful. His eyes, when he looks up at the ceiling and around at the crowd, hold every single one of the seven oceans.

I leave the ceremony early to avoid the inevitable rush back to the Village. I start unpacking while I wait for Rin, first my bag, then his (we managed to organize it such that we’re in the same room). I check my watch. It’s two o’clock. I consider texting him, calling him, but I decide against it. I don’t want to be that partner. Jealous and demanding and controlling. When I finish unpacking, I grab a beer and I strip down to my boxers and I flop down onto the bed. I try to flip through some TV, but it’s all in Portuguese. So I give up. I just sit and sip from my beer, then sip from another beer, and stare at the ceiling. I can hear the celebrations continuing outside the room. They’re loud and exciting but I’m so tired, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Sometime during my third beer, the door opens, and Rin stumbles in. He’s not drunk—I can tell by his facial expression. He’s exhausted, he’s high on adrenaline, he’s so unbelievably happy. I sit up in bed and put my beer on the table.

“Hey, babe,” I call. He closes the door, leans back against it, takes a deep breath. Then he looks up at me and smiles.

“Hey,” he says.

Without a word, I open my arms. He steps out of his shoes, takes off his gray blazer and lets it fall to the floor, then crawls into them. I feel his fingers clutch at my chest, feel his legs wrap around my waist, feel the way his hair tickles the bottom of my chin. As he holds onto me, almost like a child, I start to loosen his tie for him.

“How was it,” I ask, “finally walking in the Parade of Nations?”

“I can’t describe it. For the first time I thought...you know, I’m here.”

“Mhmm.”

“I felt like Dad was watching. Almost like he was walking right next to me.”

Instead of responding, I kiss the top of his head. I kiss it for a long time. I let my lips linger, press myself into his scalp.

“Have I told you how proud I am?”

“Like every five seconds.”

“Well, I’m really proud of you. You looked really good out there. Even in that dull gray blazer.”

“Aw, you don’t like the blazers?”

“You look better in darker colors.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I start to tease him a little bit. Nibble on the top of his ear, squeeze his waist, his ass, blow onto his cheek. “What do I look good in?”

“Nothing.”

“I look good in nothing? That’s pretty rude.”

“No, I mean you look good with nothing _on_.”

“You are so smooth.”

Rin starts to laugh. He pulls away so that he can look up at me, purse his lips, and I kiss them. As we fall more deeply into each other, tasting the familiarity, he moves his fingers down to the edges of my boxers. Next thing I know, his legs are on either side of my waist and he’s pushing me down against the bed. His palms feel like volcanoes against my bare chest.

“I don’t know how you manage to look like this,” he purrs into my ear. “You don’t work out nearly as much as you used to.”

“An athletic trainer always needs to be in top shape.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Though I have...other reasons.”

“Mm.”

He starts kissing my neck, runs his hands down my arms and weaves his fingers through mine. His legs squeeze my waist and I lift my hips up to meet his. I lean my head back against the pillow, surprisingly soft in this over-the-top building, and close my eyes. Drown in the pleasure he’s giving me, try in vain to trace his tongue along my skin. Squeeze his fingers. I breathe out, desperate into the air, as he moves his lips down my chest. His hair drifts along the surface of my skin, and it makes me smile. Suddenly his mouth is at my bellybutton, his hands running along my heaving chest. I stretch my arms out and grasp loosely at the sheets. My body is responding in anticipation—it knows what’s coming.

As his tongue swivels back and forth below my stomach, he lowers my boxers, until they slip off my ankles over the edge of the bed. I’m already hard. That probably has something to do with the beer...or maybe the fact that we haven’t actually had sex in about a week. It’s been busy. As soon as his tongue touches the tip of my cock, I reach down and bury my fingers in his hair. I want to tangle it, want to pull it, and then afterwards I want to brush it out for him. He pulls me in deeper, but slowly. He taunts me with the agile and trained movements of his tongue. Its flicks, its twists, the wetness of his lips creating a ring sending me higher with every moment. I can’t help but remember the first time. When he’d nearly choked.

He’s much more experienced now.

He takes me in completely, and then pulls back up, running his tongue up along the bottom of my rock-hard dick. Then he wraps it around the head, spins, flicks, and I moan his name. He breathes out against me and my fingers, of their own will, grasp the tendrils of his hair more tightly. His hands run along my thighs. I open my eyes for a moment, so that I can see him. His eyelashes, thick, brushing against my stomach, saliva slipping from his stretched lips, his cheeks almost as red as his tangled hair. I can only handle it for a few moments, before my head drops back and the breath leaves my chest. When I close my eyes I see white. Feeling nothing but pleasure when he takes me all the way in again, and, more quickly, bobs up.

“Fuck,” I sigh, when he starts to go faster. Starts to groan against me. I can’t control the rapidness of my breathing anymore, can’t control the overwhelming pleasure that’s making my muscles twitch, making my fingers pull, making my words and thoughts incomprehensible. He’s moving fast, now, taking me higher, higher, higher. I wonder how loud I can be before the neighbors start to hear. Although, in a place like this, I don’t think it’ll matter much.

He takes me right to the edge, to the point that I’m about to burst. Then he slowly takes his mouth, dripping and wet and curling into a smile, from my cock.

“Did you know,” he says, his voice low and raspy, “that in the Olympics at Sydney in 2000, the athletes were having so much sex that they ran out of condoms?”

“Really.”

“Yeah, really.” He smirks down at me and, maintaining eye contact, throws his tie to the floor. Then he slowly, relishing every moment, unbuttons his shirt.

“That’s not fair, babe,” I murmur.

“What, you don’t want the show?”

He tosses his shirt. Then his pants.

“Roll over,” he says.

I do as he says. I always feel hot when he orders me around with such conviction. Usually, I’m the one doing that. But not always. I hear him fiddling with something plastic. I don’t need to turn around to know what it is. Then I hear the sound of him squeezing from the tube of lube. Before I can prepare myself, he’s spread my cheeks. I suck in a breath when I feel his finger, slick and long and thin, sliding into me. After moving it around for a bit, he puts a second one in. I feel him curl over me, feel his hot breath on my spine. He curls his fingers and teases at my sweet spot, until my fingers curl and my teeth clench. I release the tension when he takes his fingers out, but it’s only for a moment. I feel the tip of his cock, probing, teasing. I breathe out and, in that moment, he enters me. I’m not terribly tight—but it has been a while since he’s topped. I push myself slightly onto my quivering elbows as he pushes, groans, further and further, until he’s all the way in and I’m so desperate that I’m pushing my ass back against him.

“Fucking hell,” I say hoarsely. He starts to thrust. I start to move my hips, too. Grinding against him, urging him to go harder, deeper, faster. He angles himself up, until I have to bite down on my own lip from the overwhelming pleasure of his cock against my prostate. I would never say this to his face, but I’m honestly a bit surprise that he remembers where it is so quickly. His hands dig into my hips as he thrusts, again, again, again, while I reach my hand down to touch myself at the same time. It’s only our first night but we’re gonna have to change the sheets. I don’t think the cleaning workers will be surprised.

I force myself to wait, until I feel his body stiffen against mine, feel him give a final thrust, and his breath becomes raspy and gravelly and he cries my name against my back. Then we come together, and we jump into the shower because we’re hot sweaty messes, and we rip the sheets from the bed and drink some more beer and dance in towels while a Brazilian sitcom plays for itself on the television.

“I love you,” I say to him as we lay in bed that night, happy and drunk.

“I love you, too. Thank you for coming with me. I’m glad that you’re an athletic trainer, because you can stay here with me and we can have sex like every night.”

“I’m glad you’re glad.”

 

* * *

 

I tell Rin that it’s a bad idea to talk to Haru before their first race. When he tries to argue, I tell him that the 200m freestyle is on Sunday, in just a few days—he’ll be able to last two days without falling all over Haruka Nanase. And, on top of the fact that talking to Haru would just psyche him out, I remind him that it’ll psyche out Haru, too. One of the most easily psyched out people we know.

“You’re right. Fine. I’ll just lie low.”

Sunday rolls around, and he swims the 200m freestyle. His heat is, thankfully, different from Haru’s. Not surprisingly, they both qualify for the semifinals—two separate semifinals, which I’m relieved about. When he swims, I stand on the sidelines with his sister, Gou. I know there are cameras on me. Maybe commentators saying, There is Sousuke Yamazaki, newcomer Rin Matsuoka’s athletic trainer! He’s getting really into this, isn’t he? I can’t help it, though. I cheer for him so loudly, so continuously, that by the end of the race my throat hurts.

Nobody’s surprised that Rin and Haru both make it into the semifinals. I’ve been watching the news. In regards to swimming, they’re both on the who’s-who list of swimmers for these Olympics. The prodigies expected to put Japan and Australia back onto the map.

Rin qualifies for the finals, but Haru’s time is better. By the end of the semifinals, Rin is fifth, and Haru is third.

I try not to let that make me nervous.

Rin, Gou, and I stay in the room for the entirety of the next day before the finals. I give him a massage, force him to drink water, stretch him out.

“Just let me call him,” he begs.

“Absolutely not. Talk to him after the race.”

“Fine.”

I can imagine Makoto having a similar conversation with Haru.

Before the 200m freestyle, Rin swims the 200m butterfly. He easily qualifies for the semifinals and, after that, qualifies for the finals in fourth.

The 200m freestyle finals roll around.

When they get up onto the diving blocks, and silence falls across the stadium, my heart stops. Rin and Haru are, predictably enough, swimming in adjacent lanes. Rin’s dying inside, I know he is. When the buzzer goes off, and I see Rin and Haru’s bodies line up, see them slip gracefully into the water, I start to scream. I start to scream Rin’s name as loud as I can. I jump up and down.

He’s ahead. He lengthens the gap gradually. Even after the final turn, he’s ahead.

But the Chinese swimmer is closing the gap.

And then, Haru is closing the gap. Haru’s always been that bastard—comes back around when you least expect it. Rin starts to fall behind and I feel the frustration of not being able to do anything. Of not being able to jump into the pool myself and pull him that one inch forward.

He comes in third. The Chinese, second.

Haru comes in first with a time of 1:44:65. He gets the gold, and Rin, the bronze.

The press interviews him, and he puts on a smile and kisses his medal and says in his fluent English how happy he is to bring a medal back to Australia. How happy he is to have medaled in his first event at his very first Olympic games. How excited he is to swim the 200m butterfly finals tomorrow, the 100m butterfly after that, the medley relay after that.

I let him cry that night in my arms as he says, over and over again,

Why am I never fucking good enough?

 

* * *

 

The next day, Rin, Gou and I go to support Haru during the qualifying rounds for the 100m freestyle. We meet up with Makoto, too. He’s blushing and excited and, as usual, all smiles. His hug makes me feel warm. Together, we watch Haru gracefully qualify for the finals in second.

Later, Haru joins me, Gou, and Makoto to watch Rin swim the 200m butterfly finals.

He comes in fifth, with a time of 1:54:82. Not even his personal best.

He curses Michael Phelps’s name later when the five of us go to dinner together. I let Rin and Haru catch up. Though, from my side, it’s hard to watch Rin swallow his pride and pretend that watching Haru beat him didn’t break his heart.

The next day Haru wins silver in the 100m freestyle. It’s his second medal.

The day after that, Rin swims the qualifying rounds for the 100m butterfly. His best event, his favorite event by far. He just barely qualifies for the finals, which is worrying—but he’s in. That’s what matters, I tell him as he holds back tears that night. That’s what matters.

He gets bronze.

This time, he starts to cry before we leave. He starts to cry after the interviews, when he walks up to us and falls into Haru’s arms. Haru doesn’t say anything. He’s smarter than that. He just lets Rin cry. Later that night I put him to bed and stroke his hair while he sleeps, wishing there was some way for me to keep him from having nightmares about his father.

 

* * *

 

Neither the Japanese team nor the Australian team manages to medal in the 4x100 medley relay, though they both qualify for finals.

By August 13th, about a week since the opening ceremony, Rin and Haru’s first Olympic games are over. They both leave with two medals. Haru with a gold and a silver, Rin with two bronze.

The international and Australian press raves about Rin. The potential he has, the raw talent, the strength, the speed. Professional commentators are hired to talk about where they think Rin Matsuoka can go in the future.

The Japanese, of course, immediately decide to make Haru the mascot of their Olympic swim team.

It’s to be that way for the next decade.

Despite the press, despite his team’s happiness, despite the objective view that Rin did _unbelievably well_ at his first Olympics...

He cries a lot.

He tries to throw away his medals, only for me to retrieve them.

Your father would be so proud, I try to tell him.

Don’t fucking bullshit me, he says. Dad’s fucking pissed off and you know it.

Gou stays with us in Sydney for a few weeks. She’s there with me on the nights that Rin can’t sleep because he’s too busy thinking, Why am I never fucking good enough?

And how am I, _me_ , Sousuke Yamazaki, supposed to convince him that he’s always been good enough? 


	8. 8

**8**

_ Present Day—2047 _

It’s funny. Out of every competition that my father has ever swum, he talks about Rio the least. He hates talking about it. Absolutely hates it. He’s never even shown me the bronze medals he won—they must be in here somewhere, I realize. Whenever I bring up Rio, he tells me that he’d rather talk about Tokyo. Or the 2020 World Championships. Anything but Rio. Haru-ojichan, who doesn’t really like to talk about anything if nobody else brings it up, is the one who told me all about Rio. When I asked him, I mean.

I check the time. It’s 2:30am.

I should go to bed, I tell myself. There’s no reason to be sitting here, documenting in such detail all these photographs. There’s no reason for me to keep looking through them. I can just come back tomorrow, or the day after, and finish.

But I don’t go to bed.

I keep looking at the photographs.

The next one is dated on my father’s birthday. His twentieth birthday. It looks like he’s at a party, slightly tipsy, surrounded by people. Other swimmers, his coach (whom I’ve met), paparazzi leeches. Though I wouldn’t have thought that they’d be on him already. Small-town press, probably. And, of course, Yamazaki-san. They’re standing side by side, arms on each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. My father’s smile much wider, much less restrained, than calm, collected, brooding Yamazaki-san.

 

* * *

 

_ February 2017 _

On the morning of Rin’s twentieth birthday, I get up early to make him breakfast. An omelet, his favorite type of coffee, toast, orange juice. I put it on a tray and I walk back to the bedroom, where he’s just starting to stir. Balancing the tray on one hand (I waited tables for a bit while I was taking classes), I draw the blinds with the other, and suddenly he’s covered in the rising sunlight. He has the day off today. We both do. He shields his eyes, groans, sits up in bed and stretches his arms. I bow at the waist and present him with the tray.

“Breakfast in bed for the birthday boy?”

“Sousuke,” he says. He smiles. My heart swells until I taste it on my tongue and I turn my face away because I don’t know what kind of expression I’m making. He takes the food and beckons for me with his hand. I crawl into the bed, sit beside him. Kiss his open lips, brush his hair back from his face, squeeze him for a moment so that I can remind myself, as I do every morning, that this is real.

“So? Plans for today?” I ask him as he eats. “I’ll do whatever the birthday boy demands of me.”

“I’m so tired. Can we just stay in bed?”

“Come on, we should at least go out to dinner,” I pester. I don’t actually care much about dinner. I just need to get him out of the apartment for a few hours.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “Burgers. And a walk by the pier.”

“You’re so fucking cliché.”

“Says the one who decided that making me breakfast in bed was an appropriate move on my birthday.”

I shrug, kiss his shoulder, steal a piece of toast.

“We can stay in bed until then, though,” I wink.

And that’s what we do. When he finishes his breakfast, he runs to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, showers, probably takes a piss. I lay in bed waiting patiently. He comes out smelling like shampoo and Shea butter and he jumps into bed and we spend the day rolling around in the sheets. Ignoring the sun as it rises, pushing away our phones when they buzz, letting the air ring with our laughter and the sounds of our kisses and my voice saying his name and his voice saying mine. He misses calls from Gou, Haru, Makoto, Nagisa and Rei, his mother, his grandparents, his friends on the team.

He ignores all those calls just so he can be in this moment, here with me, and when I try to say to him how much that means to me the words won’t come out. Instead, when I look into his eyes and touch his lips and open my mouth, all I can say is, “I love you so damn much.”

“Jeez, your face is all red,” he laughs. “You big dummy.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face against his stomach.

“I really do. I know I say it a lot, and maybe it’s starting to lose its meaning, but—”

“No, it’s not,” he interrupts. Starts to play with my hair. “Every time you say it I hear it like it’s the first time.”

“Now who’s sappy?”

“Oh, bite me.”

I bite him.

At around 5, we drag ourselves out of bed, though we’re exhausted, and get ready to go to our favorite burger joint. The one we went to on the day that I confessed my feelings for him a year and a half ago. We sit down in a booth. I order for the both of us. Two double cheeseburgers with cheddar, lettuce, onions, extra pickles, no tomato, medium rare, and a soda. While he eats, I intermittently check my phone. He doesn’t notice.

We walk back to the apartment.

I want to hold his hand, but I know he won’t let me. Since the Olympics, actually, he’s gotten even more uptight. There have been a few occasions where we’ve run into press people, looking for interviews or pictures of ‘Australia’s rising swimming prodigy.’

I’m not really listening to him while he’s talking. Something about Gou, maybe? I’m not sure. I’m anxious, jittery, by the time we get back to our apartment. He puts the key into the door, swings it open, flips on the lights.

As soon as he does, at least thirty people (how did they all fit in there?) jump out from their hiding places and scream Happy Birthday. There are streamers, there’s confetti, music starts to play and people blow on kazoos and there’s cake and snacks and drinks and when I glance at Rin’s face, he looks like he’s in shock. Eyes wide, face red, blinking like a deer in headlights.

“Sorry. I would’ve let you stay in bed, but they needed to set up the party,” I say, sticking my hands in my pockets and following him inside. He can’t even respond to me because, in the next moment, everyone runs up to him. Wishing him happy birthdays, popping open a bottle of champagne, dragging him around. As the party starts, I lament the cleaning that I’ll have to do. But I try not to worry about it. I’ve invited every friend that he’s made since coming to Australia—even Russell and Lori have made it. Predictably enough, Rin starts to cry. It’s a happy cry, though. He can’t stop smiling. I let myself melt into the background for a little bit. I don’t mind. He knows I’m here, and that’s what matters.

That’s what I try to tell myself.

After a few hours, there’s a knock on the door. I answer it, as one of the few sober people in the room, and my first worry is that someone is making a noise complaint. But instead, I find a few people with cameras, microphones, large synthetic smiles.

“Yo,” I call over my shoulder before even greeting them, “who invited the paparazzi?”

“We’re not paparazzi!” one of the men cries. “We’re just here to get a sneak peek of Rin Matsuoka’s life outside the pool.”

“Why?”

They stumble over their answers. But before I can protest, they push their way past me, and I find myself alone in the doorway, facing an empty hallway, eyes rolling.

The party continues. Despite the press, everyone continues to enjoy themselves. At around midnight, Rin makes his way over to me and throws his arms around my neck without warning.

“Hey,” I laugh.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” he says.

“I can’t believe you can’t believe it.”

He gets down onto his heels and holds me at arm’s length. Looks me right in the eyes. Maybe he doesn’t realize that almost everyone is watching us, including the press.

“Thank you, Sousuke. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome, Rin.”

I can’t help myself. He looks too fucking gorgeous—too fucking happy for me to control myself at that moment. I lean forward, my lips reaching for his, my eyes closing. I don’t care that people are watching, I don’t care that this could be in the newspaper, and maybe I should, but I don’t. Not even a little bit.

Rin, though, obviously does.

Before I can kiss him, he turns his face away and pulls me into another hug. As if the kiss wasn’t there to begin with. I hold him awkwardly, gently, and I push back the frustration if just for a few moments.

I don’t talk to him for the rest of the night.

At around two, the last people clear out. The past few hours have been a blur to me. As soon as the last person is out the door, I lock it, take a deep breath, and bang my head against the door a few times. Then I turn around and I start to clean. The cups strewn across the carpet—the empty and half-empty plates all over the kitchen. The ruffles in the sheets of the bed. The stray napkins and fallen snacks and crooked streamers. Rin tries to help, but he’s sluggish. I’m not asking much of him. But he’s trying anyway. It’s nice of him. I should be feeling grateful.

But all I can feel is anger. Growing rage.

“What a party, huh?” he sighs. He starts to change, throwing his shirt to the bed and stretching his arms. He paces, wearing just his jeans.

“Yeah,” I respond curtly.

“Didn’t know you were so good at throwing parties, babe.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just real talented in a lot of ways.”

“Sou.”

I look up when he says my name. He’s looking at me with a furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“What?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, definitely. Everything’s fine,” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. You seem stressed about something.”

“Just tired.”

“I’ve used that excuse enough times to know when it’s a lie.”

“Yeah? Guess I can’t fool you, can I.”

“Sousuke, talk to me.”

I straighten up, letting the trash bag in my hand trail onto the floor.

“It’s been a year and a half, Rin,” I finally say. “How long are you going to pretend that we’re not together?”

Rin blinks at me. Like, somehow, he wasn’t expecting this. I can’t believe he’s surprised. He opens his mouth, tries to say something, but no words come out. I expected as much. But now that I’ve started, now that he knows what I’m thinking, I can’t stop.

“I don’t know why it’s a big deal, anyway. I guess I understood a year ago, but now? I don’t get it. What are you so embarrassed about?”

“Embarrassed? This isn’t about embarrassment,” he replies. Voice somehow smooth as silk. “It’s just...it’s about...”

“About what? Go ahead. Tell me.”

“I’m just not ready.”

“Not ready for what, Rin?”

I hate myself when I get mad. Because I never scream. I never raise my voice. I’ve always been good at controlling whatever temper I had—I fight in other ways. Jab in other ways. Stab in places you wouldn’t be expecting.

I’ve been told that I’m frightening when I get angry.

“Not ready for what? Tell me. You’re obviously ready for _this_ , because we’ve been doing it for a year and a half. Or are you questioning whether you actually love me?”

“N-no, of course not!” he cries. “How could you ever doubt that?”

I shrug and throw an empty bottle into the trash bag.

“Seems like you’re unsure about _something_.”

“I...” He takes a deep breath, then he starts to pace again. “I’m not ready to come out.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You don’t want to tell people you’re gay? That’s why you won’t kiss me in public? That’s why we can’t stop fucking sneaking around?”

“What is so hard to understand about that?”

Now his voice is starting to get loud. He’s getting worked up.

“Listen, Sousuke. I’m finally making it. I can actually _be_ somebody, be the person I’ve dreamed about being for as long as I can remember. You know what it’s like in this fucked up world—if people knew, it could ruin everything.”

I stare at him wordlessly. He won’t meet my eyes. Just keeps pacing, wringing his fingers together. I can’t quite understand what I’m hearing.

“Stop staring at me like that,” he grumbles. “Say something!”

“What the fuck do you expect me to say to that? Oh, right, sorry babe, totally understand, let’s just stay in the closet for as long as possible.”

“Not _that_ , but I would expect that out of everyone _you_ would understand!”

“What, I’m just supposed to read your fucking mind all the fucking time?”

“Yeah. Actually, yeah, you are.”

“Oh, spare me with that. The thing is, I don’t understand.”

“I just don’t want people to know, all right? It’s not hard to understand. You saw the press here today. The more competitions I swim, and the more championships I _win_ , the more we’ll be in the spotlight. I don’t want something else to stress about!”

“Okay. It’s fine. I get it. I’m just a burden to you, is that it?”

“You know what, when you act like this, yeah. You fucking are.”

I know that he doesn’t realize how much those words cut into me. But he said them anyway, and now I hurt.

“If I’m such a burden, why do you even bother keeping me around?”

“Sousuke, come _on_. Just fucking getting over it, all right? I don’t wanna come out, I don’t wanna tell everyone that you’re my partner, I don’t need that in my life right now.”

“You can just tell me if I’m embarrassing you. Just come out and say it.”

“That’s not it, and you know it!”

He’s screaming now. The neighbors can probably hear him even more clearly than the party. For them, incoherent Japanese yelling.

“I’m just an extra stressor in your life, yeah?”

“Stop it! That’s not what I said! Why can’t you just be happy being with me without all the complications?”

“Complications? By complications, I assume you mean...just being able to walk down the street holding your hand?”

He starts to pull at his hair, and I continue to gather the garbage around me. The tension is overwhelming both of us.

“When I’m ready, I’m ready, okay? You’ll know. I’m just not ready.”

“I still don’t understand what that means.”

“Because you don’t _fucking listen,_ Sousuke!”

“Well if I’m so bad at listening, why don’t you just go and call Haru? Since he’s so good at listening to you.”

“What the fuck does Haru have to do with any of this?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me? About the phone calls with him at three in the morning? The text messages?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re _jealous?_ ”

“That’s not what this is about, but now that you mention it, yeah. I’m jealous.”

“Oh go _fuck_ yourself.”

“Fine, since I’m obviously too stressful for you to be around.”

“Oh my god, back to that again? Stop overreacting!”

“I’m not overreacting. You’re overreacting. Nobody’s going to stop giving you first place at competitions because you’re gay.”

“Just...I don’t _want_ to come out, okay? I don’t want people to know that I’m dating you, I don’t want people getting into my personal life. It’s simple. Just get it through your thick fucking head.”

I don’t respond. I just turn my back to him. I need to take a deep breath. His screams are echoing in my ears. I hear him sigh.

“I’m gonna sleep at Jake’s tonight,” he says. I still don’t respond. I hear him gather his things in a duffel bag and, after a few minutes, the door slams.

As soon as he’s gone, I throw the trash bag in my hands at the wall and watch it explode.

I want to love Rin. I want to understand him. I want to be there for him.

But I don’t want to be a burden to him.

Am I a burden to him?

Shit. 

        My worst fear is happening, isn’t it?


	9. 9

**9**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I’m getting frustrated now. The photographs aren’t giving me enough of a picture—I can see the images, now about two years’ worth, but I don’t know this story. I don’t know who Yamazaki-san is. I know, at the very least, who he was to my father. Someone important. Important enough that there’s an entire box dedicated to the times Dad spent with him. And yet, I’ve never heard his name come up once in my twenty-two years of life. Not once. Not until today, when he just happened to recognize me because I look a little too much like my Olympic-champion father. I consider, for a moment, running downstairs and shaking my father awake, shoving the pictures in his face and demanding that he explain to me the decades of his life that he conveniently left out.

But, really, he hasn’t. He’s told me all about his time in Australia. Moving there right out of high school, training on the swim team, meeting my mother, living for ten years on top of the world in Sydney...

And I still don’t know who this man is.

I shake away my frustrations and pull out the next photograph. It’s another one of just Yamazaki-san. He’s in the pool, the one that I’ve visited myself. The pool in Australia where my father trained for his professional life. He has a coy, no-teeth-showing smile on his lips, a beckoning look in his teal eyes. When I look at his face, I can imagine what Dad felt. An unadulterated desire to jump into that pool, to follow that mysterious gaze, to leap right into his muscular arms. He’s just standing in the pool. Not doing anything. And he knows, certainly, that Dad is photographing him. He’s turned his head just slightly—a pose. He’s the only one in the entire pool. It looks dark, like it might be night. The picture is dated September of 2017. The article that accompanies it doesn’t seem terribly relevant. It’s another story I’ve heard before—a story about my father’s performance in the 2017 World Aquatics Championship in Budapest.

_Rin Matsuoka, Australian prodigy, takes gold in Budapest,_ the article reads. The photograph is of my father, holding two gold medals and smiling that overwhelmingly beautiful smile of his. Yamazaki-san is standing beside him, hands in his pockets. My father always likes to tell me that Budapest was the turning point in his life. When he really started to get to the top.

 

* * *

 

_ September 2017 _

I check my watch. It’s about ten in the evening. The sun has already set and I’m getting restless. I’m stretching out one of the other swimmers who’s been having irritating shoulder problems (my specialty) and giving him advice on how to care for it. Rin is still in the pool—I’m watching him from the corner of my eye. Just cooling down, now. Holding the board with his hands and letting his legs push him forward. I hate that he’s always the last one out of the pool, but I suppose I’m used to it by this point.

“Thanks, Sousuke,” the swimmer, a man named Mitch, says to me. “Mind if I check up with you again tomorrow?”

“Sure thing. Get some rest tonight.”

“Will do, mate.”

He grabs his bag, smiles at me, and leaves the pool. Rin and I are the only ones left. I take my seat on a bench, slump down with my hands in my pockets, and watch him do the final lap. Even now, even after Budapest in July where he took gold in the 100m and the 200m butterfly, he trains more than anybody else. It must be Haru, I can’t help but think. Haru beat him in 200m free again. Rin took silver in that category. The swimming world is starting to catch onto their rivalry. It pisses me off.

Finally, I see Rin’s head pop up at the edge of the pool, and he tosses his board onto the tiles.

“Bored already?” I call.

“Just fucking exhausted,” he sighs, ripping his swimming cap off.

“Can princess get out of the pool herself?”

“Fuck off.”

He smiles as he pulls himself out of the water, muscles dripping and swimsuit tight against his legs. I look away after a few moments. Afraid I’ll embarrass myself. I toss him a towel. Then I can’t help but watch him dry himself off.

“Enjoying the show?” he teases.

“Obviously.”

He sticks his tongue out at me, and I just wink. This is what I live for. The way he looks at me, the way he smiles at me, the way he sticks his tongue out at me when I make him feel loved and he doesn’t know what else to do. These moments. I sit and I wait patiently. When he’s finished with the towel, he tosses it back to me, so I reach into his bag and throw him a t-shirt. He stares at it in his hands for a few moments, then tosses it back.

“You know what I haven’t done in a while?”

I raise my eyebrows. 

“I haven’t just _swum_ in a while. Like, leisurely. For fun.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right,” I say. He stretches his arms out.

“Well, it’s just the two of us and the entire pool.”

He reaches his hand toward me and wiggles his fingers. I exaggerate an eye roll, a heavy sigh, just to annoy him, but I get up and grab his hand anyway.

“Take your clothes off. You’re getting in with me.”

I do as he says. It’s been a while since I swam, too. The water looks nice and blue and still. I take my jacket off, my shirt, my socks and sneakers, my jeans, leave my boxers on. I throw them into a pile by my bag and do a little turn.

“Satisfied?”

“Not until we’re actually in the pool, you big dummy.”

The next moment, Rin is running toward the pool.

“Oi, idiot, you’re gonna slip!” I cry, but he can’t hear me—he’s already jumped into the pool, letting the water splash like waves against the Japanese shores. His head pops back up and he throws his arms up.

“Get in! Before I get bored.”

So I get into the water. I jump after him, and he moves out of the way just before I’m able to land on him. As soon as I break the surface, hair sticking to my forehead, he wraps his arms around my neck and kisses me. I’m taken a bit by surprise, mostly because of the chance that there’s someone else hanging around who could see. He doesn’t seem to care, so I don’t bring it up. I just put my hands on his waist and kiss him back. His lips taste like chlorine.

We swim from lane-to-lane, duck under water and let our lips meet in the murky blueness. We splash water into each other’s eyes and make noise, because at this moment neither of us cares if there’s anybody else around. We’re the only ones, just us two, in the entire world. This pool is the universe, caressing us in its watery hands and letting us roll around, swim around, kiss as we please. I duck my head under water, and he follows. I mouth the words, I love you, and bubbles rise up to the surface as he mouths the words back to me.

_aishiteru_

I hold his face in my hands and I kiss him until our lungs cry out for air. As we breathe in, I feel his hands against my chest. He pushes me until my back is against the wall of the pool, presses his legs between mine, and kisses me again before I can do so much as moan his name. I snake my arms beneath his and press my palms against his wet back. I try to get as much skin beneath my palms as I can. I wish that I could touch all of him at the same time, wish that I could feel all of him forever. Every second of every day.

I put my hands at his thighs and move from the wall—like a reflex, he wraps his legs, slow and light beneath the water, around my waist. Wraps his arms more tightly around my neck, traces the line of my lips with his wet, chlorine-covered tongue. When our eyes meet, they’re red and puffy from the pool water. He looks like he’s been crying.

I must be making a strange expression, because Rin furrows his brow for a moment.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks, voice quiet and hoarse.

“Nothing,” I murmur. I shake my head and rub my nose against his. “Nothing. You’re just breathtaking.”

“You get sappier every fucking day,” he scoffs.

“Stop talking like a crotchety old man, you love it.”

I pull him more tightly against me, and he squeezes my hips until I feel the pleasure, white and sweet, spread between my legs. I moan, but he steals my voice with another kiss. It’s ironic, I think to myself. He’s a professional swimmer, we spend more time at the pool than anywhere, but we’ve never had sex in one.

But when he starts to push my boxers down, I stop him, pressing my lips to his neck.

Too messy, I remind him.

“Fuck, I really want you,” he groans, letting his feet touch the bottom of the pool once more. He turns his face up to the ceiling as I push my tongue hard to his neck, scrape his skin with my teeth, squeeze his ass. I want to hear him, I want to make him scream, I want to blind him with pleasure.

“Fuck,” he says again.

“If we do it, people will know come tomorrow,” I say against his skin.

Instead of responding, he digs his nails into my shoulder blades and moans again.

“There’s no one around,” I coo, bringing my lips to his ear. “You can be louder.”

“I hate...ah...I hate you.”

“Do you?”

I maneuver my hand into his swimsuit and taunt the tip of his erection with my thumb.

“A preview of what’s to come back home,” I say. He breathes out and I can see it, see his breath, hot and heavy in the air.

I withdraw my hand from his swimsuit and wrap my arms around his waist again. He lets his forehead fall down against my shoulder, squeezes my neck, falls against me. We hold each other like that forever—at least, it feels like forever. Not moving. Content with the silence, but for our raspy breaths and the movement of the water in which we stand. I could stand here in this pool until every part of my skin wrinkles, until every part of his skin wrinkles, and we evaporate into the water together.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Hey, Sou,” he begins. Without moving his arms from my neck or his head from my shoulder.

“What’s up, babe?”

“When are you coming back?”  

“Coming back...where?”

“Coming back to swimming,” he mumbles. “I told you I would wait. I’m still waiting.”

“Rin...”

“Oh, come on, don’t say my name like that,” he sighs. Finally, he pulls away and looks me right in the eyes. “You promised me, Sousuke.”

“Stop it. You know it’s not that simple.”

“Why not? What’s complicated about it? You’ve rested long enough. Your shoulder should be fine.”

I brush the wet, matted strands of hair from his worried face. He’s scanning my face for a reaction. I can tell by the flickers of his eyes.

“I’m so behind. Even if my shoulder _were_ completely healed, think about how hard it would be to catch up to you.”

“That wouldn’t be hard for you. You’re one of the best swimmers I’ve ever known.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” I sigh.

“I’m not. I’m serious.” He grabs my hand and lowers it from his face. “You _promised_ me. I’ve been waiting for you, you know?”

“Waiting for what? I’m right here. I followed you to Australia. I’m your personal athletic trainer. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop doing everything for me!” Rin suddenly cries. I wasn’t expecting this outburst. I blink at him, stunned into silence. He lets go and starts to slowly let himself float through the water. “You act like every fucking breath you take is just to please me.”

“What...?”

“Like, just now! Why do you have to say, I followed you to Australia? Why couldn’t you have just said, I came to Australia because I wanted to?”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” I reply.

“That’s not the point! Sou, I want you to live your own life.”

“I _am_.”

“No, you’re not!” He’s screaming now. He’s angry.

I can’t say that I don’t understand.

“You love swimming. You love it more than anything. Why are you giving up so easily?”

“Giving up? You think I just woke up one morning and decided I wasn’t good enough? Rin, I destroyed myself. For you. I didn’t give up.”

“There you go again! Saying that everything is for me.”

Tears are streaming down his face like waterfalls.

I realize now that it’s not about the promise—it’s not about his impatience. He feels guilty. And I can’t blame him. I would feel guilty in his position, too.

It was all for him, after all.

“I’m not blaming you, Rin. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It was my decision.”

“Why did you have to fucking go and do that? You fucking bastard.”

He’s sobbing now, and for the first time, I don’t know what to do. It’s because of me. Out of habit, I reach up and touch my shoulder. I have a doctor’s appointment next week.

“I love you, Sou. I don’t want you give up your dreams for me.”

“I’m not. I didn’t, never,” I say, softening my voice. I swim toward him and hold his face in my hands. I need him to be looking into my eyes. “This is my dream. Right now, in this moment, looking into your eyes.”

“But I don’t want to be your dream,” he sobs.

“Rin...”

“I don’t want to be your dream, because I know you’ll never be mine.”


	10. 10

**10**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I’m forcing my eyes to stay open at this point. I can’t stop now, even though my body hates me and sleep is calling me. I’m too deep.

I can’t wait to call Haru-ojichan tomorrow and chew him out for being vague and cryptic. He owes me explanations now, because there’s no way I’m going to ask Dad about all this. He wouldn’t answer my questions anyway. Maybe I’ll call Gou-obachan tomorrow, too. Surely she knows something about Yamazaki-san and the relationship he had with my father. Of course, there’s always the chance that she’ll snitch. Momo has to know something, right? I’ll ask Momo.

I’m impatient, I’m so impatient.

The next photograph is at Dad’s twenty-first birthday party. It looks like it was taken in the same spot as his twentieth—the apartment that he was living in when he swam for Australia. This picture is different from the others, because it’s not just Dad or Yamazaki-san. In this picture, there are four people: Yamazaki-san, Dad, Haru-ojichan, and Gou-obachan. They’re standing side-by-side, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. Well, not Haru-ojichan. He’s turned away from the camera, as if there’s something terribly interesting that the rest of us can’t see. I can tell from Dad’s expression, from the redness in his face, that he’s drunk. Very, very drunk. I’ve only seen him this drunk a handful of times.

The newspaper article is interesting. It’s actually not a newspaper article—it’s a tabloid magazine. Dad isn’t the cover, but there’s a story about him inside. It’s about whether Dad is having a secret affair, and with whom. Accompanied by a candid photo of my father walking out of a grocery store or something, looking grumpy and tired. There are plenty of photos of him like that. Photos that I’ve seen before. They make me laugh every time.

 

* * *

 

_ February 2018 _

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through my phone and sipping on my coffee, when Rin slams down a magazine. I jolt up and raise my eyebrows. He’s been pacing around the room for about ten minutes, magazine in hand, and it seems that he’s finally come to terms with what it says.

“A tabloid story about your secret love affair,” I snicker, holding up the magazine.

“Don’t laugh! This is serious!” He starts pacing again. I keep laughing.

“No it’s not, babe.”

“Yes it is.”

“Just means you’re famous enough that they wanna make shit up about you,” I say with a smile. “Rin Matsuoka’s a household name in Australia now.”

“But that’s the thing, they’re _not_ making shit up. It’s true!”

“Wait. You’re having a secret love affair?” I gasp. He turns and gives me an unimpressed look. “Babe, you should’ve told me!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Besides, they’re very specific. Rin Matsuoka and his secret _girlfriend_. You don’t have a secret girlfriend.”

“Is this the beginning of the end? People are gonna fabricate my entire life for me until I die?”

“You’re being a bit dramatic.”

“Humor me, it’s my birthday.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry, Princess. C’mere and let me apologize.”

He drags himself over and seats himself on my lap, then buries his head in the crook of my neck and steals my coffee.

“What if they find out about us? What if they bug the apartment? What if they send in spies?”

“Then they find out about us. They’ll have to find out eventually, yeah?”

“I guess.”

I’ve gotten used to hiding my frustrations by now. It still hurts that he doesn’t want to tell anyone. It really fucking hurts. It’s been over two years at this point. But I have to pretend that I understand because he’s stubborn and I know he won’t budge—we’ve gotten in too many fights about it. We’ve let our voices go hoarse and our heads go numb from pain we fight about it so much. We’ve broken things. We’ve slept at friends’ houses. We’ve called each other horrible things. But it’s his birthday today, and I swallow back my frustration. Swallow hard, I tell myself. You’ll need it for tonight.

“So when are we headed to the airport?”

“Few hours. I told Haru to call me when they land,” he replies. He starts playing with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Okay.”

Haru and Gou are arriving from Tokyo today. They’ve flown out just for Rin’s birthday—it’s been a while since we’ve seen them, or spent any quality time with them. I hate to admit it, and I hate to think about it, but I haven’t been back to Japan since I first moved here. It’s killing me inside. I wanted to use Rin’s birthday as an excuse to go back and visit, but Gou was faster than me and jumped on the opportunity to come spend a few days in Sydney. And, somehow, Haru got dragged into it. Of course I don’t think he minds.

“Be careful when they’re here, all right?” Rin grumbles. “Gou gets really annoying about this sort of thing so just lie low.”

I don’t say anything. In some weird attempt to pull myself back, remind myself that Rin really does love me, I put my lips against his forehead. He leans into my kiss.

“Haru will probably figure it out himself, though,” he muses. “He’s observant.”

A few hours later, Rin, Haru, Gou, and I are setting up the apartment for the party that’s happening tonight. It’s meant to be more low-key than last year’s—or so Rin claims. I doubt with his status that that will actually be the case. He and Haru are chatting. Or, I guess, Rin is talking and Haru is listening. Occasionally interjecting. Across the room, we occasionally make eye-contact. Exchange solemn nods, awkward blinks, hurried glances away. I’ve always felt uncomfortable when Haru is around. I know what he means to Rin, and it makes me jealous. It’s always made me jealous. When I see Rin smile at him, when he makes Rin laugh doing something that’s not even funny, when Rin drops everything to comfort him and call him in the middle of the night because he’s having a mental breakdown.

That’s not fair, though.

Haru’s a nice guy.

And it’s nice to hear other people speaking Japanese in our apartment.

I let Gou distract me. She’s always a fun person to be around. Upbeat, lively, ambitious and bold and really beautiful.

“So? Japan or Australia,” she asks me, while I hold the chair for her and she puts up the streamers.

“Oh, that’s a tough one.” I pause for a moment, think the answer over. “Japan.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Guess I’m just used to it.”

“But you have to be used to Australia by now, too.”

“Sure, but my memories aren’t. Sorry, that didn’t really make sense.”

“No, I get it,” she smiles down at me. “Japan misses you too.”

“Yeah?”

I shake the chair, just to tease her. She yelps and grabs onto my shoulder, then slaps it playfully when I laugh at her. Her laugh is like Rin’s. Their personalities are very different, even though they look frighteningly alike.

Rin spends an hour doing Gou’s hair for the party, for the simple reason that he has nothing better to do. There’s still a little while before guests show up, so I grab a few beers and Haru and I sit on the couch to watch television. I hand him one of the beers.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Sure. Favorite channel?”

“Anything, I don’t care.”

“How’s your English?”

He looks over at me.

“Was that a joke?” he asks. Not accusing, not sarcastic, just totally serious. I blink at him.

“Yeah, it was a joke.”

“Oh.”

“So...news?”

“Okay.”

We don’t say anything else. I can hear Gou and Rin from the bathroom, speaking to each other in hushed tones as he brushes through her hair, ties it in ribbons and sticks in bobby pins. I’m not sure how he got so good with her hair. He probably spent his childhood doing it for her. I don’t like being alone with Haru. We have almost nothing in common.

“How’s your family?” I venture.

“Fine, thanks.”

“And Makoto? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“He’s good. He says hi.”

“School going well for him?”

“Yeah. He’s graduating soon.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“...Yeah.”

_Hurry up in there, babe._

At some point in this horrid awkward silence, the doorbell rings, and I jump to get it. The first wave of guests arrives, and the party begins. Games, drinks, music, the works. And, as I was expecting, it’s actually even crazier than last year’s.

And in the course of it all Rin gets hammered.

Soon he’s yelling, dancing, jumping around and clinging to me, to Haru, to Gou, to anyone who will have him. His face is bright red and there are tears always on the brinks of his eyes. He cries about everything when he’s drunk.

“I just love everyone so much!”

“This drink, it’s just...it’s so good!”

“Haru your eyes...SO BLUE!”

“My baby sister is growing up too fast!”

“I’m gonna throw up...”

Thankfully, he doesn’t actually throw up. But he’s a handful. I figure there has to be at least one media leech who managed to sneak in undetected, and I have to admit I’m a little eager to see pictures of drunk Rin plastered on the tabloids tomorrow morning. He’s cute when he’s drunk.

When it’s just the four of us left, we decide to put Rin to bed and clean up tomorrow.

“But I’m not tired, I just wanna hang _out_ with _my friends_ ,” he cries, his words slurred.

“We’ll hang out plenty tomorrow, okay?” I say to him soothingly, as Gou and Haru help him undress. He can’t stand straight—he keeps swaying, so I hold him by the shoulders. His eyes are red and puffy from how much he’s cried. It’s fucking hilarious. I can tell Haru is holding back his laughter, too. It’s kind of cute, actually.

When we get him into bed and try to tuck him in, he shoots his arms up and shakes his head vigorously.

“I need my baby sister! Come sleep with me Gou...like when you were a baby,” he cries.

“Okay, Rin,” she sighs. Haru and I snicker as she climbs into the bed and he latches onto her like a magnet. “Better?”

“Better!”

Haru and I slowly leave the room, turning off the lights and closing the door. Then it’s just the two of us in this fucking mess of a room, where there are red solo cups and wine bottles and beer cans and streamers and confetti everywhere.

“I’m not cleaning this up right now. I’m kinda drunk myself and I’m way too tired,” I say, putting my hands behind my head. “You okay sleeping on an air mattress?”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Haru replies. But he seems distracted.

“Everything okay?”

“I have a weird question,” he begins. I shrug.

“Go for it.”

“Do you have any...stuff?”

I blink at him. Then he lifts his hand and rubs his thumb and his index finger together.

“Oh, no shit. Sure, I have stuff. Obviously we can’t do it in here—you okay to go downstairs?”

“Sure.”

I can’t say I’m surprised, not even a little bit. Haru stands anxiously at the door while I rummage through the drawers in our kitchen, get out a little plastic bag, and a lighter. Then, being careful and quiet so as not to bother Rin or Gou, we slip out and head down the stairs to the bottom floor. From there, we head out the back, where there’s almost nobody around, and sit down on the stone bench. He sits, patiently, hands in his lap, as I pack the bowl.

“I have to hide it from Rin. Who knows when they do surprise drug tests, you know?”

“Trust me. I know,” Haru nods.

“Yeah. Bet you do.”

I hand him the bowl and light him up. He smokes it like a pro.

“I have to hide it from Makoto, too. He just worries a lot.”

“Right.”

He hands it to me and lights me up. I take a drag. We’re silent for a few minutes, passing it back and forth, letting ourselves mellow out.

“How is it? Swimming for Japan?” I hear myself ask.

“It’s fine. At least, I think it is.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice.”

“You made the right choice,” I scoff as I light him up. “You’re a hell of a swimmer, Haru.”

“Yeah. That’s what everyone says.”

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Sure I do. I love it. Swimming is everything to me. But competing at this level is stressful.”

“Yeah. It gets to Rin sometimes, too.”

“How is he?”

Haru’s voice gets lower, more serious, when he asks that question. I pause to let it sink into my head for a few moments.

“He’s fine. Some days are better than others. But he’s good. Being world champion in butterfly doesn’t hurt his self-esteem, that’s for sure.”

“Is he still hurting? About Rio?”

“I think so. He hurts a lot when it comes to you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s not me you’re hurting.”

“Those are some crazy stories in the tabloids,” Haru says suddenly. I pause, the bowl in the middle of the air.

“What stories?”

“Of Rin’s secret affair. Pretty far-fetched, huh?”

I don’t say anything. I just take another smoke.

“The secret girlfriend, or whatever...It’s you, isn’t it, Sousuke?”

I breathe the smoke out from my pursed lips and hand him the bowl with a smirk.

“That easy to tell?”

“For me, yeah. Gou probably knows, too.”

“Rin said you would figure it out.”

“How long has it been?”

It takes me a second to remember.

“Two and a half years,” I finally say. “August, 2015. That’s when I told him I loved him for the first time.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“He doesn’t want to. Says he isn’t ready.”

“That’s so like him to say.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

“Just be patient with him,” Haru sighs. “That’s the only advice I have to offer.”

“Thanks. Your wisdom is awe-inspiring.”

I see the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.

“If it makes you feel better...I think you’re really good for him. You understand him better than anyone else ever could.”

“Yeah, sometimes I wonder,” I reply.

“I don’t. I’m really confident in that. You can take care of him really well.” He takes a drag. “Better than I ever could.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I think I was at one point. Not anymore.”

“Do you love Makoto?”

“Yes.”

“Happy for you.”

“Thanks. I’m happy for me, too.”

I can’t help but laugh. Maybe Haru’s not so bad. Maybe I should get high with him more.

“Just...don’t stop caring for Rin,” he says. Sadly. “Even when he wants you to stop, don’t stop. Because when he says he wants you stop, that’s when he needs you to care the most.”

“Weird, isn’t it? How we so often tell people not to do the things we want them to do?”

“Not really. Everybody does it.”

He hands me the bowl and looks up at the sky.

“I like Australia,” he begins, “but I think I like Japan more. The sky is prettier.”

I chuckle to myself and mimic his position.

“Yeah. Me, too.”   


	11. 11

**11**

_ Present Day—2047 _

There’s a big jump before the next photograph. I turn it over and it’s labeled Melbourne, April 2019.

The month rings a bell, loud and clear and sharp, in my head.

It’s the same month that Dad met Mom.

Mom has told me the story so many times. They were at a charity gala, she dragged by her agent to network and he dragged by his coach to build a good public image before the world championships. There, Mom always says, they ‘totally hit it off.’ There’s a turn in my stomach when I look at the photograph. It’s another photograph of Yamazaki-san. It’s his body in profile, standing in front of a mirror, looking down at his shoes. He’s buttoning the jacket of a black tuxedo, seemingly unaware that Dad has even snapped the photograph. His hair gelled and his skin sparkling, he looks pristine and attractive. He cleans up nice. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of my parents at the gala, so this picture catches me off-guard. There was someone else, there, too, someone both of my parents glossed over in their retellings of the story.

The article is about the gala. _Matsuoka makes appearance at charity event_. The photo used in the article is of my father, a glass of champagne in his hand and half-turned away from the camera in his flashy white tux. Yamazaki-san is standing beside him. Mom isn’t in the photo.

 

* * *

 

_ April 2019 _

I’m at the door, car keys in hand, sunglasses hanging on the collar of my shirt.

“Rin! Hurry up, we need to get on the road!” I scream into the apartment. A few moments later, Rin stumbles out of our bedroom with a huge duffel bag and sweat dotting his face.

“The least you could’ve done is helped me pack,” he grumbles. I shrug and open the door for him.

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” I tease. I squeeze his ass playfully as he walks past, leaving me to close and lock the door. We’ll be gone for about a week, on the road to Melbourne; it’s about a nine-hour drive from Sydney. We have the money for plane tickets, obviously, but we decided amongst ourselves that we wanted to make a roadtrip out of this. It’ll give us a chance to spend time together that we haven’t been able to lately. Rin’s training is more intense now as the world championships approach. He’s been swimming more than ever before. About a month ago, his coach approached him with the idea of attending a charity gala in Melbourne.

“What for? I’m not a celebrity. I’m a swimmer,” he responded.

“Wrong. You’re both,” his coach interrupted. “I know you’re gonna kick ass at the world championships—and if you kick ass at the world championships, the media’s gonna be all over you. So they gotta like you. You’re going to this charity event.”

“ _Fine_.”

“Take Sousuke with you. Good press.”

“What?” I stuttered.

“It’s in a month.”

So here we are, climbing into the car with snacks, coffee, bags of shit and tux bags to hang in the back. I don’t trust Rin to drive, so I get into the driver’s seat and he sullenly joins me in the passenger seat. We bought the car together about a year back—I’m glad for this chance to really use it. I look over. Rin’s pouting. Slumping in the seat, arms crossed, really fucking sexy with his tight t-shirt and sunglasses pushing his hair back from his face atop his head.

“Stop sulking, babe. It’ll be fun,” I say, and reach over to pinch his cheek. He just pouts more.  

“I hate shit like this.”

“Why? People love you. You’re gonna be a hit.”

“Whatever.”

“Besides, roadtrips are fun. Just focus on that for now—the gala isn’t for another two days. Two more days to mentally prepare to actually be social for once in your damn life.”

“Fuck you.”

I chuckle, then lean over and kiss his warm, red cheek.

“At least pretend you’re happy to spend some time with me.”

His lips finally turn into a smile. I turn on the car, turn on the radio and give him complete musical control, then pull out of the driveway. Half an hour later we’re cruising down the highway, following signs to Melbourne. The music is blasting, the windows are down, we’re both wearing our sunglasses. His hair’s all over the place and I love it. I take every chance I can to avert my gaze from the road, just to catch a glimpse of him. Glorious and sunkissed and really smiling in the seat next to me. Fuck, I love him so much. How has it been over three years, and still the sensation, the overwhelming passion, hasn’t waned even a little bit?

Every time I look at him it’s like the first time.

_How did I get this fucking lucky?_

I thank whoever designed it such that, in elementary school, Rin Matsuoka taught me how to swim.

After about four hours, we park at a rest stop to grab some food and take a piss. In the bathroom together, we glance around anxiously, both very well aware of each other. Then, when the coast is clear, we sneak into one of the stalls and fuck. His coach reserved separate rooms for us at the hotel—we’re not sure how easy it’ll be to sneak around there with press everywhere, so we’re just gonna take every chance we get. At this point, we’re pretty good at it. I know his body as well as I know mine, and he knows mine as well as he knows his own.

This week is the first in years that Rin has finally gotten a pass to eat whatever the fuck he wants, so he takes full advantage and orders a disgustingly large and beautifully greasy fast-food meal. Complete with the large fries and shake. Back in the car, I steal a few, take a sip of my Pepsi, and we head back onto the road. About five hours left. When I start to get quiet after another hour, he offers to switch with me, but I refuse.

“I’m a better driver than you are wide-awake when I’m tired,” I sigh.

“Oi, I’m a great driver.”

“Right. Your insurance agrees with you, I assume?”

“You know what, insurance is a scam anyway.”

“Right.”

The sun sets when we’re about an hour away, so we take our sunglasses off and roll up the windows and he holds my hand while I steer with the other. He has a few gross cold fries left, and he feeds them to me when I open my mouth and pester him.

Finally, after a missed turn and Rin screaming at the navigation for about forty minutes, we pull into the parking lot of the hotel. It’s the Grand Hyatt, tall and expensive and lighting up golden in the darkness. Our hotel rooms are obscenely expensive, but we don’t mind. We’re not actually the ones paying for it, and even if we were, Rin has plenty of money to spare. I guess I’m not doing so badly, either. Well enough to afford my designer sports jackets and sneakers.

Our rooms are down the hall from each other, and we separate for about an hour to unpack and settle in. Then, I quietly and smoothly walk over to his room, knock on the door, and slip inside. The hotel is quiet. Most of the gala’s guests will be arriving tomorrow. So, in our car-ridden exhaustion and freshly-showered bodies and flushed skin, we take our time in the sheets of the hotel bed. Muffle our voices with the feather pillows, let music fill the room from the expensive HD television. He leaves marks in the sheets from his nails, almost as clear as the marks on my skin—at around midnight, he calls down to the lobby to ask for an extra set of sheets.

“The ones you gave me are dirty,” he says on the phone, winking at me. “Unacceptable, honestly. No, no, I won’t demand any refunds, just bring me fresh sheets right away.”

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” I murmur, and pull him back on top of me.

“Apparently I’ve got celebrity status. Might as well use it, right?”

I end up going back to my room at around 2, and we agree to meet downstairs for breakfast at 10. We have the entire day to ourselves, to explore Melbourne. The gala is the day after tomorrow.

I can’t sleep, though.

I mean, it’s not the first time in three years that I’ve slept in a bed without Rin. We’ve had our fair share of arguments, and I’ve had to spend some nights alone in bed without him beside me. But I still don’t like it. Especially knowing that he’s right down the hall, but isn’t right beside me in bed. I’ve grown so used to being able to turn around in the middle of the night and wrap my arms around him, knowing that he’ll fall right into my body because, now, his body has learned how to fit against mine. It’s natural now. And the bed is so big in this expensive hotel room. Bigger than our bed back home.

How annoying is it to miss someone right down the hall?

The next day goes by too fast, and I’m sleep-deprived and tired and so so happy for every second of it. We walk through the streets of the city, do the generic tourist route. Great Ocean Road, Federation Square, National Gallery of Victoria. There’s a cricket match going on at the Cricket Grounds, so we hang around and sneak a peek. Mostly, though, we just wander. With our sunglasses, our shorts and t-shirts and white shimmering shoes. My hands in my pockets while he snaps photo after photo on his phone. A few of me, when I’m not paying attention, because he knows I don’t like to be photographed all that much. I take a lot more of him.  

By the time we get back to the hotel, we’re too exhausted to even make love. Besides, the hotel is now teeming with people. Attractive, perfect, glimmering people here for the gala, no doubt. The press roams the halls, cameras out and microphones eager for an inside scoop. We stay as subtle as possible, sneaking off to our separate rooms, and call each other once we’re out of the public eye.

“Can we sleep in tomorrow? I’m fucking knackered,” I ask.

“Same. Get up whenever you want, I guess. Then come over and we can get ready for the gala.”

“Don’t sound so excited, it’s only a gala.”

“Hours, Sou, hours of pretending to like people.”

“Not like it’s the first time you’ve done it.”

“You’re right. I mean, I’ve pretended to like you for years.”

“Hey, maybe you should just go to the gala by yourself?”

“I’m sorry, please don’t leave me alone with those people.”

We say our good nights, our habitual I-love-yous, and go to bed.

We both wake up around noon. The gala doesn’t start until seven, so I shower and grab my shit and walk over to his room, and for a few hours we just lay in bed and watch television. Then, we force ourselves to get up and get dressed. We bought tuxedos especially for this occasion. Mine black, his white.

“We can’t match,” he said at the time. Firmly. “I refuse.”

I help him put on his suit. He helps me put on mine. We straighten the bowties, use the lint roller, gel each other’s hair. It takes much longer to do his—I’ve done it before, but his hair has decided to be especially uncooperative today.

“You clean up nice, Yamazaki,” he says to me while I look in the mirror. I glance over at him through the corner of my eye.

“Not so bad yourself, Matsuoka.”

He saunters over, traces my lips with his finger, kisses them shamelessly.

“You’re gonna ruin my lipstick,” I murmur against his mouth.

An hour later, we’re at the gala. There’s even more people, more press, more commotion than we expected. Women glowing in their high heels and chignon’s and gorgeous ball gowns—men in their flashy tuxedos, all wandering and mingling with little hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. I, and I know Rin, feel horribly out of place. This is not our usual scene, to say the least. But I’m not surprised to find that Rin has no trouble making friends.

He looks like a god, after all.

People gravitate toward him. Men and women alike. Ask him his name, pretend that they didn’t recognize him (maybe they really didn’t?), introduce themselves, mingle the way you’re supposed to at a gala like this. Rin’s always been a good actor. He falls into place, throwing casually around the same smile that still makes my knees buckle. Hanging around him awkwardly, I find myself dragged into the conversations.

“Oh, your name is Yamazaki?”

“You’re his athletic trainer, I see.”

“Perhaps I’ve seen you in Sports Illustrated before?”

I’m not sure how Rin feels—we hardly get a second alone. But for me, the night is dragging on forever. Maybe I’ve just had one too many glasses of champagne.

A few hours in, an older woman approaches us, with a younger woman by her side.

They’re both excruciatingly gorgeous. The older one with sharp features, dark hair, dark eyes. The younger one with the most adorable dimples, blonde hair swept over her shoulder like golden silk, a bright red dress that makes the straight in me perk up. And, I can tell from Rin’s wide eyes when they approach, his, too. They’re both holding their own, still completely full, glasses of champagne.

“Sorry to be so forward,” the older woman begins, “but you’re Rin Matsuoka, aren’t you?”

Rin finally tears his eyes away from the younger woman and nods.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

“Well, my friend here has been absolutely dying to meet you,” she continues, gesturing to the younger woman. At that, the younger one reaches her hand out for a shake. I feel like I recognize her when she bats those endless eyelashes, embellishing eyes almost as blue and piercing as Haru’s.

“Sasha. Sasha Kershaw,” she says. Her accent is beautifully Australian. “A pleasure.”

He shakes her hand and I see their eyes meet, and jealousy shoots through me like an arrow ripping through my guts. Then, when I’m least expecting it, she looks over at me.

“And you are?”

She reaches her hand out.

I hate her now, because her expression makes me feel like the most important person in the world.

She’s so utterly charming.

I shake her hand.

“Sousuke Yamazaki. I’m his athletic trainer,” I say.

“Yes, of course. A pleasure to meet both of you.”

“Sasha Kershaw...you’re a model, aren’t you?” I ask as the realization hits me. She smiles and blushes and the only thought in my mind is how fucking beautiful she is. And if that’s what’s going through my head, I can’t imagine what’s running through Rin’s. He looks like he’s been hit by a truck.

“I am. I’m flattered you recognize me, Mr. Yamazaki.”

“Call me Sousuke.”

“All right, Sousuke. You know, I have to admit,” she says, turning again to Rin, “when I saw your name on the guest list, I got so excited. It’s embarrassing to say it, but I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since your debut at Rio.”

“Since then? Really?” he gawks.

They’re hitting it off. I’m starting to disappear into the background. They see only each other.

“Your swimming really impressed me! And I’ve been following you since. Your time in butterfly is approaching Phelps’s world record, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. I’m impressed that you know that.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me,” she teases with a brush to his arm. I see red. “Just because I model doesn’t mean I’m not smart.”

“N-no, I didn’t mean...uh, sorry,” he stumbles. I haven’t seen him stumble over his words like that in years.  

“I’m only teasing, Rin.”

She says his name very deliberately.

Sasha turns to me again.

“I’m sorry, Sousuke, but do you mind if I steal him away for a bit?”

I shake my head but can’t find any words.

She grabs his arm and whisks him away, to a world that I’ll never know. I’m alone now, with my champagne and finger food. I down the glass in one shot. I see them walk around for a little bit, I see them laughing, then I see them gravitate to the dance floor. Rin’s a shit-dancer, but she leads him and they look ideal together. She’s almost as tall as him. Short for a model, though. But, fuck, her body’s perfect, her face is perfect, everything about her is perfect.

The rest of the night is blurry. I remember stumbling around, managing to engage in some fake small talk, waiting for Rin to come back so that I can leave. But, eventually, I come to the conclusion that Sasha has stolen him for good, so I head back to the hotel by myself. I’m just drunk enough that by the time I get to my room, I’m exhausted. I pass out on the bed still fully dressed. My sleep is dreamless.

After who-knows-how-long, I wake up to the sound of loud, horrible banging on my door. I feel like my head is being split open, I’m in a pile of my own sweat and drool, and my tux is wrinkled and dirty. The knocking continues, dropping like bombs in my ears.

“All right, all right, I’m coming!” I call, groggy.

“Open the damn door, asshole!” comes the response. As I stand up, find my bearings, I realize it’s Rin’s voice. I stumble over to the door and open it. He’s standing there with his hands on his hips, freshly showered, wearing shorts and a t-shirt and his hair wet. I have no idea what time it is.

“Hey,” I greet.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I called you like twenty times.”

“I guess I didn’t hear my phone,” I sigh. I put a hand to my head and wince.

“You’re hung-over, aren’t you?”

“No shit.”

“How much did you have to drink last night?”

“I don’t fucking know, a lot?”

“I was worried about you, Sou! Why’d you just leave without telling me? Or texting me? Or _something_?”

“Because I was tired of waiting for you and Miss Perfect to get done with your little love-fest.”

At that, he pushes me into the room, follows me in, and closes the door behind him.

“What? Are you talking about Sasha?”

“Sasha Kershaw,” I say, “model extraordinaire.”

“What is your deal?”

“Nothing, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s obviously not. If you have something to say, just say it.”

“Well, if you insist.” I take a deep breath. “I think it was really shitty of you to leave me there by myself to hang out with her.”

He swipes his hand over his face and puts a hand on his hip. He’s trying to control his temper. It won’t work for long. I’ve seen this scenario before.

“What was I supposed to do? Say no? Tell her to fuck off?”

“Yes.”

“Sousuke.”

“At least, you know, after dancing for an hour, you could have politely excused yourself.”

“Why? To babysit you?”

I cringe. He sees it. He knows that he’s hurt me a lot now.

“I didn’t have to come, Rin,” I say softly.

“Just stop being a jealous bastard, all right? I know this isn’t about me ‘abandoning’ you, or whatever. You’re jealous of Sasha.”

“And what if I am? I’m your partner, Rin, not her.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think that I forgot about that or something?”

“Sure seemed like you did.”

“You need to trust me, Sou! Just because I spend some time with someone else doesn’t mean I’m gonna fall in love with them. I can’t only hang out with you, you know. I have a life.”

“Stop _patronizing_ me,” I hiss. “It’s not about trust and you know it.”

“Listen. I agreed to go with Sasha because I assumed you would be _fine_ on your own, but obviously, I was wrong. Glad I can see now that I literally can’t leave you alone for a fucking second, else you’ll get drunk on champagne and make a fool out of yourself.”

“Get out,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out. Leave. I’m gonna shower, take some medicine, order room service, and take a nap. And I don’t wanna see you. Leave.”

He glares at me for a few moments. Then, without a word, he storms out, and slams the door so loudly that I’m sure everybody in the entire hotel can hear.

I want to punch something, but I decide that leaving a mark on the wall of a five-star hotel probably isn’t the best thing to do.  


	12. 12

**12**

_ Present Day—2047 _

Slowly, I’m starting to hate my father for hiding this from me. It’s irrational hatred, I know. What reason would he have for telling me, his only daughter, about a relationship that had ended twenty years ago, and with another man? I’m not really angry that he hasn’t told me...I guess I’m more angry about the fact that he has a huge box dedicated to this man that he pretty much lied to my face about.

I recall the box for a second, and put aside the photograph in my hand to flash the light on it. And, just like before, it says my name on it. Sousuke, written in clear bold letters that I could never mistake. I’d almost forgotten that that was the label on the box. I’m still just as confused about it, though; there’s not a single picture of me in here, except for the magazine article detailing my birth. Not to mention there’s a whole other box dedicated to me, and it’s not this one.

I get a weird feeling in my stomach, but I push it aside and keep going.

The next picture, I can already tell without reading the label, is in South Korea during the 2019 world championships. My father’s second time competing here—and my father’s second time cementing himself as the world’s best current swimmer in butterfly. He doesn’t speak fondly about it, though. He didn’t break any records, and even though he won his butterfly events and his team won the medley, he still didn’t beat Haru-ojichan in the freestyle events. I’ve heard him say mixed things about that. “I’m sad I didn’t win, but glad that Haru was still pushing me to aim higher...”

The photograph is a cute, lighthearted one, more lighthearted than most of the others. Dad is winking at the camera and kissing one of his three gold medals. Standing beside him, imitating his position perfectly, Yamazaki-san is kissing my father’s cheek. It’s posed, for sure, but it makes me smile. Dad’s little ponytail, the red in his cheeks, Yamazaki-san’s glimmering, drooping eyes. Sure enough, it’s labeled August, 2019. The article is actually one that I’ve seen before. _Childhood friends turned rivals at the FINA World Aquatics Championships._ It’s a story about Dad and Haru-ojichan. An exposé of sorts.

* * *

 

_ August 2019 _

It just so happens that the World Aquatics Championships happen on our fourth anniversary. Of course, Rin remembers. He’s distracted, he’s zoning out, but he remembers. He tells me that he loves me more than usual, and he squeezes my hand harder, and his kisses are more affectionate, I think. Or maybe it’s the South Korean air. Maybe it’s the anticipation of the inevitable gold medals Rin is going to bring back to Sydney.

The first event is the 50m butterfly, which neither of us is worried about.

He easily takes first and checks off his first gold medal.

Next, as per usual, is the 200m freestyle. Rin’s understandably worried about it—he knows Haru’s best time. And it’s better than his. Not by much, but it’s better. Rin’s been having trouble with that event for god-knows-what reason. He hasn’t been able to improve his time on it for at least half a year. The adrenaline will help, I try to tell him, but he and I both know it’s a bullshit thing to say.

We’re in the locker room before his heat. I help him take his jacket off, fill his water bottle while he puts on his swimming cap and snaps the goggles against the back of his head. We’re not the only ones here, so as badly as I want to hold him, whisper in his ear, kiss his temple, I restrain myself. I just put my hand on his bare shoulder and silently try to let him know that I’m here for him. That I love him more than words can ever say, anyway.

I join Makoto and Gou in the stands. Haru’s heat is first.

“His form looks really good,” I say as they get onto the diving blocks. Beside me, Makoto nods.

“He’s in better shape now than he’s ever been. He’s beat his personal best every week consistently for the past month,” he replies.

The buzzer goes off and the race begins.

“Holy shit,” I hear myself whisper, as Haru easily takes first with a time of 1:42:50. Less than a second slower than the world record and a personal record. I’ve seen Haru swim a lot. I’ve always known he was a fucking insane swimmer—but this is the fastest I’ve ever seen him. I am, quite simply, astounded.

“I told you,” Makoto says with a good-natured smile. “He’s the fastest he’s ever been.”

A few heats later it’s Rin’s turn.

He qualifies for the semis, but not nearly as easily as Haru. I can sense the frustration emanating from him when he throws himself out of the pool, rips off his swimming cap, and descends into the locker rooms. Gou stands up to follow, but I grab her arm gently and shake my head.

“He wants to be alone before the semifinals. Trust me.”

“He’s probably talking to Dad,” she says, sitting back down.

“Yup.”

We get lucky again, and Rin and Haru swim in different semifinals. Haru wins his. 1:43:00. Rin doesn’t win his, but he advances to the finals that are happening tomorrow, the same day as the 200m butterfly qualifying rounds. Makoto, Gou and I stand up to meet Rin and Haru outside, but before we can even leave the pool we find the two of them being stopped by an interviewer for international news. Rin’s used to it by now. He’s smiling, answering the questions being asked. But when I look at Haru, I see the nerves on the surface of his skin. He’s nervous, jittery, restless.

“Damn it,” Makoto sighs. “He hates the press.”

“Rin’s got him. It’s fine.”

And, just as I said, Rin takes over for Haru when they ask him questions and he responds with blank stares and stutters. Out of nowhere, the interviewer starts asking them questions about their childhood.

“You two are childhood friends, right?”

“That’s right,” Rin says. “We grew up in Japan together.”

“Why don’t you swim for the same team, if you’re friends?”

“Paths diverge. We had our reasons,” Rin shrugs. But at the same time, he puts his arm around Haru’s shoulders. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still close. Haru’s my best friend.”

“You two have been swimming against each other in this event since Rio...would you consider Haruka your rival, Rin?” the interviewer pesters.

“Oh, definitely. I think Haru and I motivate each other. We set goals for each other—that’s always how it’s been. Right, Haru?”

Haru nods and manages a meek smile.

“Well, good luck to both of you in the finals tomorrow. We’re looking forward to talking to you afterward.”

“Same here.”

The five of us go out to dinner. We catch up, and we avoid any mention of the competition. And, of course, any mention of the fact that it’s me and Rin’s anniversary. Everybody at the table surely knows at this point. We still don’t talk about it.

The next day, before the 200m freestyle finals, Rin swims the 200m butterfly qualifying rounds. He goes into the finals in second place, and I reassure him that if he gets a good night’s rest, he’ll surely take first in the finals tomorrow.

But before that, I remind him, you need to focus on free.

My fists are clenched when they climb onto the diving blocks. I can see them glance at each other. Lanes right next to each other, like some cruel trick. They get into position, hands grasping at the diving blocks as if for dear life. And then the buzzer goes off.

I know as soon as they hit the water that Haru is going to win, no doubt.

And he does. Clocking in at 1:42:30. Another personal best, so tauntingly close to the world record, last set in 2009. Rin comes in third, and not even his best time. When they bob up from the surface and look at the scoreboard, they immediately turn to each other and hug. When I glance over, Makoto has a hand on his chest and is heaving a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad they both medaled,” Makoto says. But then, his expression turns to one of worry. “But Haru’s not going to sleep.”

“What?” Gou and I both say.

“I mean...he knows that Rin is frustrated, and he knows it’s because of him. He didn’t sleep for weeks after Rio.”

Neither of us says anything.

After the race, they interview Rin and Haru individually because they want to write a piece about their relationship and rivalry. Rin does fine, is able to hold it together long enough to make it through. Haru stumbles, struggles, but makes it out just fine.

Rin asks me to fuck him really hard that night. The way he does when he’s frustrated. He cries later. But when, at one in the morning, Haru shows up at our door, Rin throws his arms around his neck and holds him and says, while I pretend to be asleep, “I know it’s not your fault, but it’s so fucking frustrating.”

The next day he swims the qualifiers for the 200m medley relay and qualifies for the finals in third. Then, he swims the finals for the 200m butterfly. He takes gold, his second.

“I wish Michael Phelps were competing so I could beat his ass,” he said to me before the race.

The next day he takes silver in the 200m medley relay, and the day after that he qualifies for the 100m butterfly final. He takes gold in that one, too.

Two gold, a silver, and a bronze.

His team takes silver in the 400m medley relay.

Five medals in all.

Rin tells me not to wait up for him that night, our last night here, because he’s going to be late. I know where he’s going, obviously—he’s going to talk to Haru. I try to sleep, but I toss and turn imagining Rin sitting on a bed with Haru, crying to Haru, holding Haru, thinking about Haru. There’s no reason for me to be jealous of Haru. Rin and I have been together for four years—Haru and Makoto, maybe just as long. And still, I always feel like Rin is running back to Haru. Always back to Haru. Stoic, quiet, beautiful Haruka Nanase. Who took four of his own medals home. I feel, as always, like a burden. Like if I weren’t around, Rin could spend as much time as he wanted with Haru, and Sasha, and anyone else. I’m dragging him down, I think. The thought keeps me from sleeping. It’s been keeping me awake for years.

At around three, Rin creeps into the room, quiet, because I’m pretending to be asleep. My back is turned to the door. He slips into bed beside me and wraps his arms around my waist, buries his head in the back of my neck.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he murmurs.

“How could you tell?”

“Your breathing.”

He holds me more tightly.

“How are you feeling?” I ask him.

“Fine. Great, actually. I’m killing it.”

“Yeah. You are.”

“So is Haru.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see him swim? Like he was born in the pool.”

“...Yeah.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry that I take you for granted.” He kisses my skin and I feel the tendrils of his hair dancing. “You mean so much to me. And I don’t tell you enough.”

“That’s okay. I know you feel that way.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you. Thanks for being here, Sou. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. I love you, too.”

“Good. Hopefully we get to spend a million more years like this.”

“I hope so.”

I grip his hand and blink away the tears in my eyes.

_Is it possible to love this much?_


	13. 13

**13**

_ Present Day—2047 _

The next photograph is right where I expect it to be: the 2020 Olympics in Tokyo. Back in Japan, where my father was born, where he spent his youth. Where, I’m sure, he first met Yamazaki-san and everybody else that I find myself now surrounded by. The very city that I was born in, that we live in now.

This one is my favorite.

Maybe because it’s the strangest? Maybe because I never imagined that a photograph like this would ever exist? Or that, in any other situation, it would probably be framed in our living room?

My father is in the center of the photograph, laughing, tears running down his cheeks as his neck is weighed down by five medals.

Every single one of them gold.

Haru-ojichan is on Dad’s right, arms around his shoulder. It’s one of those rare photos where he’s looking at the camera. His smile is slight, but it’s there. It’s definitely there. He has four medals. Two gold, one silver, one bronze. They look like triumphant gods, standing there together. On Dad’s left is Yamazaki-san. In an outfit I’ve come to recognize after all these photos. Black athletic pants, orange and black sneakers, matching orange and black jacket with a white t-shirt underneath. It strikes me that, in the five years from the first photograph until now, he hasn’t changed at all.

Beside Yamazaki-san is Gou-obachan, holding onto his arm and grinning broadly. On Haru’s other side, Mako-ojichan. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in these photos. He looks so young, so sweet with his sincere smile and the way he has his arm delicately and warmly wrapped around Haru-ojichan’s shoulders. Then, I see a few people I hadn’t really been expecting. Next to Mako-ojichan, it’s Ryugazaki-san, with Hazuki-san lounging on his shoulders and throwing peace signs at the camera. And, on the other side of the photograph, next to Gou-obachan, is Momo. Cheeky smile, bright orange hair. So close to his future wife, but not quite close enough that they’re touching. I can’t remember when, exactly, they fell in love. Or when she realized that he was in love with her. Still years, I muse, until their wedding. And finally, Nitori-san is next to Momo. Standing straight, hands behind his back, smiling cleanly.

I wish my mother were in the picture.

I realize, as the thought crosses my mind, that I’m crying. There are tears running down my cheeks, tears that I hadn’t noticed. How long have I been crying?

The magazine clipping says, _Rin Matsuoka wins the most gold medals at the Tokyo Olympics._

 

* * *

 

_ August 2020 _

“Back to Japan. It’s weird,” he says in the airplane seat beside me. I take out one of my ear buds and nod. It’s my first time back in five years. Rin has been back once or twice to visit his family, but for me, it really is my first. I’m nervous, and I can’t quite rationalize why. There’s no reason to be nervous.

We’re greeted at the airport by an entire battery of old friends: Gou, Momo, Nitori, Nagisa, Rei, Haru, Makoto, everyone is there waiting. And when we step into the arrivals area, I can hear Nagisa shrieking as if it’s right there in my ear. Next thing I know we’ve been attacked—hugs, kisses, elated greetings come from all sides. I look over and in the chaos, through it all, I see Rin smiling. See the tears on his eyes, see him holding his friends so closely and so I can’t help but smile, too. It feels nice to be welcome.

We’ve come a few days early and are staying at Haru and Makoto’s place—a new apartment they bought when they moved to Tokyo for university. All of us go back there tonight, to reminisce and get drunk and ignore, for a few hours, the real reason that we’re here. Rin, I know, has been anticipating this for a long time—the Olympics in Tokyo.

“Sousuke,” Haru says to me later that night. Rin and Makoto have already gone to bed, Rei had to force Nagisa to leave, and the rest have left as well. I’m heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“What’s up?”

“I have a favor to return.”

He holds up a small plastic bag and I snicker.

“That you do.”

We go out to the balcony and lean on the railing, and he rolls a joint while I breathe in the familiar Japanese air.

“Wait. You’re competing,” I say as he holds the joint out for me. “You allowed to do this?

“New policy,” he replies. “No smoking right before or during. Other than that they don’t give a fuck. Figured today’s my last chance.”

“Sweet.”

I inhale as deeply as I can, then watch the smoke float up and hand it back to him. Our arms brush as he leans on the railing next to me. The drop isn’t far, I muse.

“How you feeling about the competition?” I ask.

“Not great. Don’t tell Rin.”

“But why? Last time I saw you swim you were unbelievable.”

He shrugs.

“I just have a bad feeling. The water hasn’t felt right lately.”

“Right,” I grin, snagging the joint from his fingers, “the water.”

“You’ve never had that feeling?”

“I don’t think anyone has had that feeling, bud.”

“Whatever. Hand it over.”

“Are you sure you need anymore?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

I laugh at the seriousness on his face, and give him the joint anyway.

“How’s Rin doing?” he asks.

“Didn’t you ask him?”

“Yeah. But he doesn’t know himself that well.”

“Fair point. He’s really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. His times have been really solid.”

I refrain from telling Haru that, actually, his times have been better than they’ve ever been before. I refrain from telling Haru that, most likely, Rin is going to kick his ass.

“How is he, like...not swimming-wise?”

“Your eloquence astounds me,” I tease. “He’s fine. I think he’s getting used to the stress of being in the public eye. He just lets it wash over him at this point.”

“That’s good.”

“How are you? And Makoto?”

“Fine. But I’m tired.”

That’s a surprising thing to hear from Haru. Even stoned.

“You’re tired? What do you mean?”

He shrugs again, then lets the finished joint fall from his fingers down into the parking lot below.

“Just tired.”

I know exactly what he means.

 

* * *

Rin is swimming five events at these Olympic games. 200m free, 100m butterfly, 200m butterfly, 200m individual relay, and the 4x100 medley relay. He placed first in all five of the events at the Olympic trials, but nobody was really surprised about that.

It’s already expected now that Rin is the best swimmer on the team. He just is.

I think he has the potential to be the best in the world, but I guess we have to wait until after the competition to see.

We’re in our room in the Olympic Village, just after the opening ceremony. We can hear celebration happening outside, and while on another day Rin might have joined, he’s tired. He walks through the doors rolling his neck around, slipping out of his blazer and wincing at his own tension. I fold his clothes for him while he strips down to his briefs and I put them neatly on the dresser. He clambers onto the bed and switches the television on, and I head to the kitchen to make him some tea. Decaffeinated, obviously.

“What a show,” I say. When I close my eyes I see white and red.

“Yeah. Fuck, Sou, I’m so tired,” I hear him sigh. I smile to myself and carry the tea over. Kiss the top of his head when he takes a sip. We can understand everything they’re saying on television. A game show.

“You have time to rest, babe. Don’t stress about it.”

I climb onto the bed and get onto my knees behind him. I put my hands on his shoulders and dig my fingers in, bring my mouth close to his ear. After four years of being an athletic trainer, stretching out swimmer after swimmer day after day, I know some tricks. And he knows it.

“So tense,” I murmur, and dig my fingers in deeper. He arches his head back and smiles.

“Ooh, right there,” he groans. He really is tense. I rub my thumbs against the knots, push in and up and every few moments blow into his ear, kiss his temple. His bare torso is very warm.

“Just relax. You’re a veteran at this point—you know what you’re doing,” I say to him.

“It’s weird. My goal was always just to get here, you know? Get to where Dad never got to be. So I guess I’m a little surprised that I still feel motivation after I’m already here.”

“Because you’re you. And you’re not satisfied with anything less than the best.”

“Mhmm,” he grins. “It’s why I’m with you.”

“You flatter me.”

I lean forward and kiss the corner of his smiling lips.

“I meant to tell you. If you want to go watch other events, or whatever, do it. You don’t have to come watch everything I swim,” he says off-handedly as I continue the massage.

“What are you talking about? No, of course I’ll watch you.”

“I don’t wanna force—”

“I’ll watch you because I _want_ to,” I interrupt. “Nothing else interests me but that sexy body of yours kicking ass.”

“I guess I can’t fault you for that.”

He leans back against my chest and I hold him.

And I can’t help but wonder if he really wants me here.

I refrain from saying anything, because I don’t want to fight. Not now.

It’s only been a week since our last fight.

And then (it couldn’t have been timed more perfectly), he gets a text message. Still wrapped in my arms, he reaches over to grab it. I can see over his shoulder who the message is from.

Sasha Kershaw.

I bury my face in his hair so that I don’t have to look at him respond to her. It’s not like I’m surprised, not like I’m not used to this. They talk all the time. Ever since the gala—over a year ago now—they’ve talked pretty consistently. I don’t know if they’re friends. I mean, I’ve confronted Rin about it, and that’s always what he says to me.

“I don’t know if we’re friends, really. Just acquaintances. We haven’t even seen each other in person since the gala.”

But they talk enough to be friends.

I’ve asked enough times about what, and he’s yelled “None of your fucking business,” enough times for me to assume that they talk about friendly things.

_I’m not jealous._

_Why would I be jealous?_

_Because she looks like an angel?_

_Perfection incarnate?_

I hold him more tightly, afraid that if I loosen my grip, her words on his phone screen will snatch him away from me the same way her perfectly-manicured nails snatched him away that night in April.

“Let’s go to bed, Sou,” I hear him say.

He knows how much I hate seeing her name on his phone.

“Okay.”

We go to bed.

 

* * *

 

As always, the most stressful event is first: 200m freestyle. We’re used to this by now. Rin is used to it; Haru, I assume, is used to it. They don’t talk at all until the event. We even pass by him as we walk to the locker rooms—his heat is before Rin’s. We avoid eye contact. I stand in the corner of the locker room, looking through my phone, while Rin goes through his rituals in the semi-darkness. This time somehow feels different than the others. It’s because Rin has been swimming better than ever before, and so he’s not worried at all about qualifying, about medaling, even. The main obstacle is Haru.

Of course, they both qualify for the finals. Haru in third, Rin in fourth.

The next day, Rin qualifies for the finals in 200m butterfly in first place.

Next are the 200m freestyle finals.

I sit with Momo, Nitori, and Gou. Makoto, Nagisa, and Rei are sitting on the other side of the benches. We didn’t say anything to each other about sitting separately...we just did.

My heart is about to pound out of my chest and, when Rin and Haru’s bodies slice through the air and into the water, in that split second of deafening silence, it stops. Then we begin to scream. Haru is ahead after the first turn. I look up at the timer and catch my breath. They’re swimming like torpedoes.

Haru’s still ahead after the second turn, so I stand up and begin to shout Rin’s name as loudly as I can. Anything to motivate him to go that much further.

After the third turn, Rin pulls ahead. First a little bit, then more. The crowd roars when Rin pulls ahead by a significant margin.

Rin’s hand touches the pool wall, then Haru’s, then the American’s.

Everyone is silent. We check the time again.

1:41:63. 

It’s a world record.

As Rin and Haru embrace each other in the pool, Gou hops into my arms, Nitori and Momo begin to scream, we jump up and down. But I’m not terribly surprised.

Next comes the 200m butterfly, on the same day as Haru’s 100m freestyle qualifying rounds. Before Haru’s heat begins, I tell Rin I have to go to the bathroom. I start to hum to myself, sauntering my way through the locker rooms. They’re quiet now. But as I turn a corner, I hear hushed voices, and I catch myself. They’re speaking in Japanese, and after a few moments, I recognize the voices. It’s Makoto and Haru. I freeze.

“You can talk to me, Haru. Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I just...”

“You both swam wonderfully. Silver, Haru, that’s amazing.”

“I’ve gotten gold before in the same event.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Makoto probably wrapping his arms around Haru’s slender body.

“I’m not supposed to care,” I hear Haru murmur. His voice cracking. “I’m not supposed to care about the medals. About winning. I’m just doing it because I love it, right?”

“You wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you didn’t care about winning,” Makoto whispers. I lean my back against the wall and feel the pit in my stomach grow deeper.

“I feel like I’m eighteen again. I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing anymore. What was my goal in the first place?”

I close my eyes.

“All I’ve cared about is beating Rin. That doesn’t make sense. That makes no sense. And now that he’s won I don’t know what my goal was in the first place.”

I step out from behind the corner and confront them. Makoto jumps at the sight of me, but Haru doesn’t look fazed.

“Don’t fucking lie to yourself,” I say. I didn’t mean to be this aggressive, but here I am. Angry now. Because I’ve heard the same things, said the same things, to Rin.

“You’re not doing this for Rin. And Rin isn’t doing this for you, either. When you win, or when he wins...it doesn’t mean anything. Swim because you love it. Swim because you’re fucking good at it. Use him for motivation, or whatever, but don’t let yourself think that he’s the reason you do this.”

Neither of them says anything.

“Go swim and kick ass because you _can_ , because you like the rush of it, because being in the water makes you happy you’re alive. All right?”

I look him right in his stupid blue eyes.

“All right,” he replies.

He qualifies for the 100m freestyle finals without a hitch.

Then, Rin swims the 200m butterfly finals.

1:50:00.

Another world record.

“Take that, Phelps!”

Haru wins gold, setting an Olympic record, in the 100m freestyle on the same day that Rin qualifies for the 200m individual medley final.  

(He gets gold in that, too.)

Haru ends up getting another gold in 50m freestyle.

Rin gets gold in the 100m butterfly and sets another world record of 48:07. That’s four gold medals, one for every single event that he’s swum, and three new world records. All that’s left is the 4x100 medley relay.

The Australian team takes gold with a new record of 3:25:68.

The Japanese team takes bronze.

Rin leaves his second Olympic games with five gold medals and four new world records and when we get on the plane back to Tokyo, when we land in Sydney, he’s greeted as the greatest male swimmer in the world.  

Before we leave, though, while I pack our bags and prepare to leave the Olympic Village the day before our departure, he tells me he has somewhere to go. Someone to see.

“I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He kisses me on the cheek and leaves, and he doesn’t have to say anything for me to know exactly where he’s going. He’s visiting his father.

A father who is, I’m sure, crying. Wherever he is. Heaven? The depths of the ocean? I’m not sure. All I know is that as soon as I’m alone, as soon as Rin leaves the room, I start to cry, too. 


	14. 14

**14**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I pull out my phone and check the time in New York City. If it’s three in the morning here, it should be around one in the afternoon there. I swipe through my contacts until I see the name I’m looking for. Without hesitation (I’ve never had much hesitation when it comes to digging into people’s lives), I call the number. It rings a few times. One, two, three, four. I’m just about to hang up when someone on the other line picks up.

“Hellooo!” comes the voice, singsong and sweet and in English. “You’ve reached Butterfly Bakery!”

“Hazuki-san? It’s me, Sousuke,” I reply in Japanese. I hear him gasp on the other end.

“Sou-chan! What a surprise to hear from you! I really didn’t expect you to call.”

“I know it’s out of the blue, I’m sorry. Are you busy?”

“No, it’s actually pretty quiet today. And Rei-chan’s off work. Honey, come say hello to Sou-chan!”

I find myself suddenly on speaker phone, speaking to both Hazuki-san and Ryugazaki-san.

“Hello, Sousuke. A pleasure to hear from you.”

“You too, Ryugazaki-san.”

“Wait, isn’t it the middle of the night over there?” Ryugazaki-san points out.

“Yeah...I’m having trouble sleeping, to be honest.”

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and tell us why you called,” Hazuki-san says. “I’m happy to keep you company.”

“Nagisa, don’t encourage it.”

“I appreciate that, Hazuki-san,” I laugh. “I did have something I wanted to talk to you about. Both of you, actually.”

“Oh. Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s about the Olympics in Tokyo, back in 2020.”

“Wow, that was such a long time ago!” Hazuki-san cries.

“Twenty-seven years,” Ryugazaki-san agrees.

“Do you guys still remember it?”

“Bits and pieces, yeah. We have loads of photographs.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask about. I found a photograph that I’d never seen before. And I recognize almost everyone in it...except for one person.”

“Oh? I’m not sure _I_ even remember everyone who was there,” Ryugazaki-san says.

“He’s tall. Brown hair, green eyes, really close to Dad. I think his name is Yamazaki-san. He’s in a lot of these photographs but I’ve never heard Dad talk about him or anything. Do you know anything about him?”

There’s silence on the other line. I let it go on for a few moments, digging deeper into the beating of my heart.

“Hazuki-san? Ryugazaki-san?”

“We’re not the people to talk to you about him, Sousuke.”

“Haru-ojichan said the same thing,” I sigh. “What is with this mysterious man that seems to put everyone on edge?”

“Perhaps you should talk to Rin about—”

“No, no,” Hazuki-san interrupts, “don’t bring him up to Rin-chan. Don’t show him the picture or anything.”

“How close was he to Dad?”

“Well...”

“They were having an affair, weren’t they?”

“Affair isn’t the right word,” Ryugazaki-san says.

“More like totally and completely in love,” Hazuki-san finishes.

“Right. I figured as much. He’s in a lot of pictures.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him, Sousuke. That happened a very long time ago.”

I decide to keep to myself that, just earlier today, I actually ran into Yamazaki-san. And that I somehow feel he’s closer than I think, closer than they say. More relevant than he says.

“Okay. I guess you’re right.”

“He did end up marrying your mother, right?”

“Sure, but they got divorced after six years.”

“Is that what you wanna talk about, Sou-chan? Your parents? Oh, you poor thing, you probably don’t have anybody to talk to about it.”

“N-no, that’s okay, Hazuki-san. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

“Yes. And Nagisa, you should let Sousuke get to sleep.”

“Right. Well, it was nice talking to you. Call more often! We like to hear from you.”

“Thank you. I will,” I say. And I mean it. They’re nice to talk to. Easy to talk to. I can see why Haru-ojichan, despite how different from them he is, is so close with them. I hang up the phone and, despite Ryugazaki-san’s pragmatic advice, continue looking through photographs.

The next one is from the World Swimming Championships in Abu Dhabi, the same year as the Tokyo Olympics. This one’s different. It’s a sad picture, of Yamazaki-san. But his back is to the camera, and he’s outside on a balcony in a hotel I don’t recognize. Leaning on his arms, his silhouette lighting up against the dramatic cityscape. There’s nothing explicitly sad about it. But it just feels sad. The article headline from the same month says _Matsuoka sets another record, but falls beneath the pressure of childhood rivalry._

 

* * *

 

_ December 2020 _

I wish that we didn’t have to be there. I think Rin needs a break, and I told him so before we got on the damn plane to Abu Dhabi—but he wouldn’t hear it.

“If you don’t want to come with me, just stay in Sydney, all right?”

So I swallowed my pride and, despite my better judgment and the little voice in my head telling me to fuck off, here I am. In a hotel room the night before the World Swimming Championships. I’m in bed, back turned to Rin and headphones in my ears while he flips through the television. Arabic this time, another language we have no hope of understanding. But he can’t sleep. And I know why he can’t sleep. It doesn’t have to do with the competition, or with Haru, or with anything like that.

It has to do with the fact that he feels guilty about making me feel like this.

Making me feel like I’m just an extra piece of luggage.

He probably knows I’m not asleep, too, but he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what he could possibly say because it’s too late, I’m already feeling this, feeling like I’m standing on his shoulders when really I should be letting him stand on mine. And he feels guilty about it. After about an hour of this idleness, he turns off the television, flips off the lights, and burrows under the covers. He turns his back to mine.

I can’t help it then, I turn over and I put my arms around his waist. I kiss the back of his neck.

“You’ll do great tomorrow, Rin,” I say softly.

“I know.” He sighs, dramatically, maybe overdramatically. Maybe not dramatically at all.

“Good.”

“Sou.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

_I don’t believe you._

__

* * *

__

Rin has to swim four events on the first day. First, the 200m freestyle qualifying round, then the 100m butterfly qualifying round. Then, the 200m freestyle final and the 100m butterfly semifinals. He and Haru both qualify for the finals in 200m freestyle, and Rin gets through to the 100m butterfly finals without a hitch. Then come the 200m freestyle finals.

Haru wins it. Just by a little, but he wins it. And he sets the world record for the 200m freestyle short-course—1:38:45.

Rin and I don’t talk about it that night. I’ve gotten into a habit of holding my tongue a lot of the time. So I just sit silently in bed and listen to music and pretend that I don’t see him texting Sasha Kershaw. That she hasn’t just texted, sweetly and genuinely, “How did the 200m final go? I know you were stressed about it.”

He ends up setting the short-course world records for the 50m butterfly, 100m butterfly, and 200m butterfly, leaving Chad le Clos in the dust. He manages to snatch gold in the 200m individual medley, too.

The night after the 200m butterfly, we get into another fight because I can’t hold my fucking tongue anymore and it makes him fucking furious. We’re sitting on the bed, and I’m stretching him out.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Fine. Kinda pissed that Haru beat me at the 200 free, but whatever.”

“I don’t think you have a reason to be pissed.”

“Oh, spare me with the ‘you did your best’ bullshit.”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. I was gonna say you have no reason to be pissed because you let him win.”

“What?”

He turns over his shoulder to glare at me.

“You think I let him win?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

“And just how do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen you swim. I’ve seen you swim better than that. You could’ve won.”

“But I _didn’t_. Why the hell would I let Haru beat me?”

“I don’t fucking know.” I stop stretching him out and lay on my back in the bed. “You’ve never been able to get over your stupid thing with Haru.”

“What stupid thing? What the hell are you talking about? It’s been over five years, Sou, you can’t _seriously_ still be jealous of him.”

“It’s not about jealousy. It’s about the fact that he’s holding you back.”

“You said the same thing in high school.”

“And I’m saying it now because it hasn’t changed. Nothing’s fucking changed.”

“You know, Sousuke, you bring up shit like this a lot.”

He gets up and starts to pace. Running his hand through his hair and breathing out through his nose.

“Yeah?”

“You bring up shit like this a lot. With Haru, with Sasha, with every little thing in my life, and you know? I don’t think it’s any of your fucking business.”

I sit up and stare at him.

“I just don’t get why you have to be so hung up on everything. Why you have to get so involved in literally everything I do, it’s not fair, Sou, it makes me feel like I can’t make any actual fucking decisions.”

He’s screaming now. I feel like he’s digging a knife into my heart and cutting it, stabbing it, twisting it with every word.   

“I’m just trying to help,” I hear myself say. “I’m just trying to make sure that...you know, you’re living your best life. That you’re doing the best you can possibly do.”

“I know that, I know,” he replies, exasperated, “but in the end it’s not your _job_ to make sure of any of that. Your job is to be there to support me, all right?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re micromanaging _everything_. I can’t even fucking call my best friend without worrying that I’m making you jealous. I can’t swim without worrying about every fucking comment you’re gonna make. You can do better, you can do better, you always fucking say that and you know? I’m sick of it. I can live my own life, Sou, I don’t need you living it for me.”

I turn away from his gaze. I can’t look at him, not now, not while I’m trying so hard to keep the pieces of myself together. Not while he shatters them.

“I know you love me, but it’s not all about that! I feel like you’re so hung up on me that you’re not living your own life, Sou, and that _kills_ me.”

I can’t stand to hear it anymore. I can’t stand to hear his voice saying those words.

Especially because he’s right. I can’t help but remember the words he’d said to me, years ago, in that pool.

_“I don’t want to be your dream, because I know you’ll never be mine.”_

I hear him groan, throw a pillow at the wall, as I rush into the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I dig my fingers into my scalp to distract myself from the pain, from the blurriness behind my eyes. He’s right, too, he’s absolutely right.

I take off my clothes and turn on the shower. Step in, just to feel the hot water rushing over my body. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts. Everything hurts. I put my hands against the wall and put my forehead against the wall and let the water flow. Rin’s screams echoing in my ears. In the midst of it all, I hear the door open. Slowly. Quietly. I hear shuffling. Then the shower curtain pulls back and I feel Rin step into the shower with me. He doesn’t touch me for a few moments. Then he reaches out and, knowing my body better than his own, puts his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Sousuke.”

“Don’t be. You’re right.”

“No, don’t say that. Don’t admit that to me.”

He moves until he’s in front of me, back against the wall, hands at the base of my neck.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you. It wasn’t fair.”

I start to shake my head.

“No, you’re right, I need to stop getting so involved. I need to let you be.”

“But I...would you yell at me for taking you for granted?”

“No, because you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“No.”

“Sousuke.”

He forces my face up, until our eyes meet.

“I love you. I love you so much. But I don’t act like it and I’m sorry and I fucking hate myself for not saying it more. I love you so fucking much.”

I smile, because he’s crying again and it’s so charming.

“I’m sorry for being a burden on you,” I say.  

“No, Sou, don’t say it like that...”

“Okay, then I’m sorry for getting involved in your business.”

“I know it’s because you love me. I know.”

“Still.”

He reaches up and puts his arms around my wet, steaming neck. I lean forward into his embrace. Press our naked bodies together, until I hear him exhale into my ear.

“Let me fuck you in this shower,” I murmur. I run my hands down his body and push against him harder. “Let me make love to you.”

He starts to nod, and I kiss his cheek. He nods more. I kiss the corner of his open mouth, his neck, let the saliva from my tongue join the hot water. He stretches his arms further down my back and digs his nails in. I know his body so well by now. I know the spots on his skin where my fingers have been. I know what he likes, what he doesn’t like, know every curve and dent as if it were my own. I press my palms against the spots that I know make his knees weak and bite the lobe of his ear. My tongue swivels and I hear him moan in my ear and I’m obsessed with this, with the heat from his body and his voice and the water still pouring over us from the showerhead.

I push my hips up against his and our cocks meet, and we groan together. We moan, I his name and he mine. Then I grasp at his hips and drive my tongue into his open mouth, and he tilts his head back to let me in. He bites my lower lip and I catch his eyes beneath hooded lids.

“I love you,” I groan against his lips.

“Prove it.”

I pull away, then turn him around and press his chest against the wet shower wall. I kiss the back of his neck, dig my teeth into his shoulder blade and watch his hands slide against the tile. He spreads his legs and calls my name out again, pleading, urgent and desperate. It turns me on, makes me tremble. I push my cock into him, and he lets himself fall further against the wall. I snake my arms around him as I thrust, moving my hand down to his throbbing penis. Within seconds, we both see stars. We’re both shaking, wet hair matted to our flushed cheeks. We can’t tell what’s sweat, what’s water, what’s anything else. I feel his heart beating against my palm. I feel nothing but pleasure—so much pleasure that I forget what we argued about. I forget, for a moment, what got us to this point.

“Say my name again,” I beg him.

He says it again. Moans it. His voice hitches when I thrust harder into him and push him further up into the clouds of this white, intense pleasure.

“Fucking hell, don’t stop,” he begs. I push in harder, harder with every thrust, curving my hips so I can hit him at just the spot that drives him crazy.

We come together, leaving it on the walls and swirling in the drain. We stand there tangled for a few moments, exhausted, drowsy from the warm water. He turns around and kisses my sleepy lips, puts his thumbs to the corners of my eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Sousuke.”

“Me, too.”

“Thanks for loving me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. I’ll always do it whether you want me to or not,” I smile.

“I know.”

“We should probably shower, huh?”

“Yeah.”

We laugh, and I hug him because there’s nothing else for me to do.

It’s a good way to hide the fact that I still feel like shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but feel that Sousuke and Rin would have a terribly unhealthy relationship.


	15. 15

**15**

_ Present Day—2047 _

When I look at the next photograph, it all becomes too much. I just curl up and cry for a little bit.

It’s not a sad photograph. At least, not at first glance. But I see sadness here. I can imagine my father, looking at it, thinking about how remorseful he is. How much he misses and maybe regrets these moments, this story. There are three people in the photograph, taken at the familiar apartment Dad lived in back in Sydney. Dad in the middle, smile beaming. Yamazaki-san on his right, holding a can of beer. But he’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking across, at the third person in the photo: my mother. One year my father’s junior. By the time of this photo, one of the most famous supermodels in the world. She has a glass of wine in her perfectly manicured hands, a terrifyingly gorgeous smile on her cherry red lips, a flush in her smooth porcelain skin. She’s probably a little bit tipsy. Her other arm grasps my father’s. She’s leaning close to him, golden hair drifting like satin over both their shoulders.

They look perfect. Like they belong together—even to someone not as biased as I am. Their pearly teeth, perfect smiles, the red hair and the blonde hair and the red cheeks. They fit like puzzle pieces. And then there’s Yamazaki-san. He looks like a third wheel, even though I know for a fact that he’s still seeing my father. Just through the photo. I can see love and sadness and worry in his eyes when he looks at them together.

Like he knows.

I text my mother through my tears. It’s really early in Australia, like here, but I text her anyway. She’ll see it when she wakes up.

“Hi Mommy, miss you and love you lots. Dad and I are fine. Have a good day.”

 

* * *

 

_ February 2021 _

I have my head in his lap and we’re in bed. It’s the afternoon. We’ve barely moved. We decided, together, to give him a low-key birthday. I’m glad. With my work and his training, we so rarely get to spend actual time like this together. Not to mention the fact that Rin is essentially the best swimmer in the world, a household name, and a private life for him practically no longer exists. And he’s still desperate to keep us a secret from the rest of society. For reasons I can’t understand that we’ve fought about pretty constantly.

He’s on the phone with Haru, who called to wish him happy birthday. As he talks, laughs, he plays with my hair. I close my eyes and feel him there.

“Sure. Thanks, Haru. Tell Makoto I said hi. See you later.”

He hangs up the phone and starts to tinker with the skin on my face. Smoothing my eyebrows, pulling on my cheeks, putting his fingertips in and out of my slightly parted lips.

“Hey, babe,” I say, smiling up at him. He smiles back down.

“Hey. Comfortable down there?”

“So comfortable.”

“I’m glad.” He leans down and kisses my temple. I wrap my arms around his legs and rub my cheek against his thighs. I’m so happy right now. We’re not fighting, we’re not working, we’re not stressed. We’re just here. Together.

“How does it feel to be 24? You’re an old man, Princess.”

“You’re one to talk, Pops.”

“Feel any different?”

“No. Just like...another year has passed.”

“A pretty kickass year. Mr. Best Swimmer in the World.”

“Come off it,” he laughs. He grabs my face in his hand and squeezes, smashes my puckered lips with his. Just as he kisses me, we hear a familiar commercial start to play, so we turn to the television. It’s a Giorgio Armani fragrance ad—one that stars none other than beautiful, graceful Haruka Nanase. Rin begins to laugh. It’s one of those horribly overdramatic ads, with the slow melancholic music and the ambiguous sexual relations between a beautiful man and a beautiful woman.

“How did they even get him to do that commercial?” he laughs.

“‘Please do this for us, oh gorgeous Mr. Nanase! We’ll even let you swim!’” I say. He laughs harder, hugs me harder, kisses me harder.

“Have I told you that I love you today?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Well that’s not _nearly_ enough. I love you.”

“Love you too, babe.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Uh, sure.”

“But you can’t get mad.”

“Okay?”

“Sasha called.”

I pause. He traces my lips with his finger. He knows that my heart rate just went up, even before he puts his hand on my chest. Right where my heart is. He presses his palm down hard.

“Yeah? How’s she doing?”

“She’s good.”

“You guys have been talking more lately.”

“Just when we can. She travels a lot.”

“I bet. I see her face everywhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah...she’s actually in Sydney for a photoshoot this week.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, with a nervous smile. I pretty much know what’s coming. “I was wondering...would it be okay with you if she came over tonight? You know, for my birthday? We’ll keep it low-key. Just the three of us—oh, and her agent.”

“Oh.”

“Sou, it’s okay if—”

“No, tell her to come over. You haven’t actually seen her in person since that gala almost two years ago.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

His smile broadens, and he kisses me again. Hard and long.

“Thanks, Sou.”

“Don’t thank me. You don’t have to ask my permission, okay? I trust you. Do whatever you want.”

“But it’s your apartment, too.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“And I know you don’t like her.”

“I do too.” I sit up and pout at him. “She’s really nice.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Stop it, I’m fine. And like I said, I trust you. Okay? I trust you to do what makes you happy and I love you no matter what.”

“I love you so much.”

I pucker my lips and smile, so he put his hands on my cheeks and kisses me. Our smiles sing songs together.  

“She doesn’t know about us, right?” I ask.

“No.”

“And you’re not gonna tell her?”

He breaks eye contact.

“I mean...no.”

“Right.”

I get off the bed and move to the kitchen for a beer.

“Sousuke...”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to fight. Just call Sasha and tell her to come over. And tell her we have loads of alcohol.”

He laughs, as strained as it is, and pushes his hair back from his forehead. And looks like sex incarnate doing it.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, the house is clean and there’s a knock on the door. Rin’s wearing tight, ripped jeans, a t-shirt with a denim jacket, his little necklace with the rectangular pendant. His style hasn’t changed much in the past five years. He has his hair tied in a ponytail, and he walks by me to get the door, I smack his ass.

“Dickhead,” he teases.

“Douche.”

Just before he opens the door, he sticks his tongue out at me, and licks his lips. Then he opens it.

“Rin!”

In that next moment, I see Sasha Kershaw, throwing her arms around Rin’s neck. She pushes him back, makes him stumble, and he hugs her around the waist in return. Her agent, the woman we originally met back in Melbourne, follows them in and closes the door. I say hello.

“You haven’t changed at all since we met,” Sasha says, holding Rin at arm’s length. “Except for the tuxedo, I guess.”

“Neither have you. Still gorgeous.”

“Oh, stop it.” She blushes a bit, pinches his cheek. Then, it seems, she notices I’m there for the first time.

“Sousuke! Good to see you, mate.” She steps forward, holds my shoulders, and kisses my cheek. “You look great.”

Now I’m blushing.

“You, too.”

And she does. She’s wearing casual clothes. Jeans, high-heeled black boots, a red blouse and black leather jacket. Hair straight and silky and gold, makeup simple yet bold at the same time. She looks the part of supermodel.

“Please, come in! It’s not much, but...” Rin begins.

“It’s lovely.” She sits down on the couch, and Rin sits beside her. “But you have the money. Why nothing bigger?”

He shrugs.

“Sou and I are happy here. We don’t ask for much. I think living somewhere more dramatic would just blow our heads up.”

“That makes sense.”

“So,” I call from my place at the refrigerator. “What’re you drinking?’

“Do you have any wine?” her agent calls back. “Just a little bit. She can’t take in too many calories.”

“Right. Just wine for me,” Sasha repeats. Her smile looks forced.

“Sure thing. I’ll open up a new bottle of pinot noir just for you.”

“You’re the best.”

“Rin?”

“Just a beer.”

“You got it, bud.”

I toss him a can of beer, open the bottle of wine, and pour a glass for Sasha. I bring it over to her and bow my head when she takes it.

“How chivalrous,” she says, playing along.

Fuck, she’s so nice.

I sit in the armchair across from the couch, where Sasha and Rin are sitting. She’s sitting really close to him. Her face is a light pink, and she hasn’t even taken a single sip of wine yet. She’s glowing. He is, too. But that’s normal. Rin’s always glowing. At least when I look at him.

The night drags on. I sit, sipping from my first beer. My second. My third. The two of them fall into easy, effortless conversation—like they never even left that gala in Melbourne. Maybe he doesn’t realize how into him she is. But I notice. The way she touches his arm when she talks, the way her voice slows down when she says his name, the way she looks right into his eyes and bats her butterfly lashes when she talks to him. I can see just from the look on her face. She’s in love with Rin. Surely he knows.

_He has to know, right?_

Rin doesn’t even finish his first beer. But Sasha finishes her first glass, and when I offer to give her another, she nods despite the protests of her agent. I just bring the whole bottle over and pour her another glass.

“Sousuke! Play some music? Any music is fine,” she asks me a few hours after she’s arrived. She’s pretty tipsy by now. “I always love to have music playing.”

“Me, too,” I smile. I stand up and move to our speakers, one of the more expensive parts of our apartment. But I blush madly as soon as the music starts playing—I forgot that I still had Frank Sinatra in there.

“Frank Sinatra?” Sasha cries.

“Shit, sorry. I’ll change it. This is kind of embarrassing.”

“No, no! Keep it! I love Frank Sinatra,” she insists.

“You do? I always make fun of him for it,” Rin says.

“I do, I really do. I’m a bit of an old soul.”

She puts her glass of wine on the table and stands up, grabbing Rin’s hand as she does.

“Dance with me, birthday boy.”

“I’m not a very good dancer.”

“Or a very good liar. Come on.”

He smiles up at her, throws me a nervous look, but follows her lead. Her agent is fed-up, it seems. She crosses her arms and leans back in her armchair as the two of them begin to dance. She guides his hand to her waist, puts hers on his shoulder, holds his other one and they sway. I lean back against the wall and just watch, just sip my beer, just try to slow my heart because _fuck_ they look amazing together. They’re speaking in hushed tones. Maybe she’s wishing him a happy birthday. Saying thank you for inviting her. Whispering the dirty things she wants to do to him in bed. She reaches back and takes the hair-tie out of his ponytail, then runs her hand through his hair. Then, “Fly Me to the Moon” starts to play. Sasha lays her head on his shoulder, her lips by his neck, and they sway slowly.

I look away and try to pretend that it’s not happening.

She’s drunk, I know, but she would do this sober, too.

And it’s not like I can hate her for it.

It’s not like she knows that Rin and I have been together for almost six years.

I down the rest of my can of beer in one shot.

Before they leave, Sasha pulls out a small box and a card from her bag and holds it out to Rin.

“What is this? You didn’t have to,” he gushes.

“I know. But I wanted to. Happy birthday, Rin.”

She leans forward to kiss his lips. I guess Rin finally decides it’s a little too far—he turns his face so that her lips hit his cheek, instead.

She gets the picture. She holds his hand for a second, smiles, thanks me for the wine, and then leaves with her agent holding her wrist. Rin closes the door and finally, _finally,_ we’re alone. Just the two of us, and Frank Sinatra.

“Nice of her to get you a gift,” I muse.

“Yeah. It really is.”

“Open it. I wanna see what it is.”

He opens the box. It’s a bracelet. A really simple bracelet, with a brown string and a silver rectangular pendant. Matching his necklace almost perfectly. I’m not sure even I would’ve been able to think of a gift like that.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Come here. Let me put it on for you.”

I put the bracelet on for him. When it’s tight, firm, he lifts his hand and puts it against my cheek. I lean into his palm and kiss his wrist.

“You’re amazing, Sou. Really. Thank you.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“She’s really something.”

“Yeah.”

“What’d she write in the card?”

He reads the card out for me.

“Happy birthday, Rin. I’m so happy that I was able to build up the courage and talk to you that night in Melbourne—you’ve really changed my life for the better. I can’t imagine what the past two years would’ve been like without you there to text me back from across the world or answer my phone calls in the middle of the night. You deserve the world and more...but I thought this bracelet would do for now. Love forever and always, Sasha.”

“That’s really sweet of her.”

“Yeah.”

It appears that they’re even closer than I initially thought.

I feel sick to my stomach, especially when I look at him wearing that bracelet. So I head back to the room.

“I’m heading to bed, Rin. Sorry to make you clean up on your birthday.”

“That’s all right. You look tired.”

I kiss him, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, then head back into the room. I strip into my boxers and curl under the covers, put my headphones into my ears, try to drown out my doubts. But all I can hear is Sasha’s voice in my head. I can so perfectly imagine her saying, in her smooth voice, “I love you, Rin Matsuoka.” I hate it.

About half an hour later Rin comes into bed. Forces my arms around him and kisses my neck. He keeps telling me that he loves me, because he knows that I’m hurting, and it’s the only thing he can think to do to alleviate that pain. I fall asleep to the sound of his voice, _I love you, Sousuke_ , over and over and over.

And still, I dream about him and Sasha Kershaw.


	16. 16

**16**

_Present Day—2047_

        My phone starts to vibrate. It’s my mother, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s probably just woken up and seen my message. She can never just text back—she always has to call. Which is part of the reason I texted her. I smile, wipe my nose on the back of my sleeve, and answer.

        “Hi, Mommy.”

        “Sousuke! Sweetie, why are you still up?”

        “Just can’t sleep.”

        “You know how bad that is for you. Please don’t be like your father in that regard.”

        “I know. I’m sorry.”

        “What’s on your mind? You don’t usually send me texts like that.”

        “I’m thinking about you and Dad.”

        “Yeah?”

        “What was it like? Your marriage? Before shit hit the fan, I mean.”

        “It was...fine.”

        “That’s it? Fine?”

        “Why are you suddenly so interested?”

        “Because I don’t know why you guys got divorced.”

        “Lots of reasons, honey.”

        “That’s so vague.”

        “Rin is a beautiful person. He’s passionate and energetic and we fit together really well. Your father made me the happiest person in the world.”

        “And then...?”

        “And then it just stopped. He wasn’t that person anymore.”

        “So you stopped loving him.”

        “No, no, never. I never stopped loving Rin. But he stopped loving me.”

        I take a shot in the dark.

        “Did Dad cheat on you?”

        She hesitates.

        “No, I don’t think so. But his love was always somewhere else. Never with me. I gave, and I gave, but I never seemed to get anything back.”

        “You think he was in love with someone else? Who?”

        “I don’t know, sweetie. I really don’t know.”

        “Oh.”

        She’s lying, I know it.

        “Don’t worry. One thing I do know is that when you were born, he gave every last drop of love inside him to you. You’re the real love of his life, Sousuke.”

        I smile, wipe the stray tears.

        “Okay. Thanks, Mommy.”

        “I have to go, but I’ll call you later. I promise.”

        “Okay. Love you.”

        “Love you more. Now get some sleep.”

        I stare at her picture on my phone for a few moments after I hang up. I wish my hair was blonde like hers, my waist skinny like hers, my smile as brilliant as hers. I did get the blueness of her eyes, though. The gorgeous vastness of those ocean irises.

        It really hurts to think that maybe, Dad never loved her at all.

        The next photograph is a simple one. Dad and Yamazaki-san, sitting across from each other in a restaurant booth, identical burgers on the table between them. They’re smiling so genuinely. They’re not holding hands, they don’t look sad or impassioned, they look like they’re together. There. In that moment. Together, in the same space, and they’re happy about it. There’s an article, looks like it’s from a tabloid, that has a picture of Dad in a hoodie and sunglasses. It reads, _Matsuoka still sneaking around with secret lover?_

 

* * *

_August 2021_

        I wake up to the feeling of Rin’s lips pressed to my forehead. His fingers, twirling like ballerinas in my hair, the smell of his coffee-breath and the warmth of his skin pressed to mine. Teasing my cheeks, my bare chest, the contours and dents of my body that he can map so well even with his eyes closed. I let my eyes drift open, only because I want to see his face, see myself lost in his eyes, so desperately. And there he is. Smiling. Beautiful with the rays of sunlight on his cheeks, his jaw—so much smoother than mine, covered in stubble. I reach my hand up groggily and touch his cheek. He’s on his knees beside me, chin on the bed.

        “Good morning, sleepy head,” he says softly. I grab his hand gently by the wrist and kiss his palm.

        “Hey, beautiful.”

        “You know what today is?”

        I shrug, pout, even though I know exactly what day it is.

        “It’s our six-year anniversary,” he continues.

        “No way.”

        “It doesn’t feel like six years, though. It feels like it’s been way longer. Like...like it’s been centuries.”

        When I smile, brush his hair back from his forehead, he leans forward and kisses me.

        “Do you have anything special planned for me?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

        “Oh? Didn’t realize that was my duty?”

        “Of course it is. It always has been,” he teases with a pinch of my nose.

        I roll my eyes, but pinch his nose back.

        “Obviously I have something special planned, Princess.”

        “I thought so.”

        I sit up in bed, holding his silver pendant necklace in my fingers. He leans his arms on my crossed legs.

        “So? Plans?”

        “Well, I figured it would be hard to do anything super fancy or romantic,” I start, “since the paparazzi is always on your ass.”

        “Fair point. So...”

        “You think I’m actually gonna tell you? No. You’ll just have to wait and see tonight.”

        “Douche!”

        “Shut up and get back into bed, Princess. I wanna kiss you and suck your dick.”

        “Well, who the hell am I to refuse such a kind offer?”

       

* * *

  

        At around six, I drag him out of bed and stand in front of the mirror, hands around his waist and chin on his shoulder. We sway there for a few moments, staring at each other in the mirror. I kiss the back of his shoulder, run my palm along the structured muscles of his abdomen.

        “We need to get dressed,” I mumble into his ear.

        “Do I need to dress fancy?”

        “No. Put on those sexy ripped jeans.”

        “Don’t tell me what to do.”

        “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

        “Fine, but only because _I_ think I look sexy in them.”

        “Great.” I pinch his sides, then we get dressed. He grabs a hat and sunglasses, in the hopes that he’ll be able to disguise himself from the leeches inevitably waiting for us outside. We head down from the apartment, me leading and he at my heels. As soon as we walk outside, we start to walk—fast. I know where I’m going, and he trusts me, so he follows. Keeps his head down. I’m not too conspicuous, so as long as he sticks with me, we should be fine. After we walk for a few minutes, I think he realizes where we’re going.

        We walk into the burger joint. The same one we went to six years ago, the day that I first told Rin that I was in love with him. He takes off his hat and sunglasses and looks at me with his wet, glistening eyes.

        “Welcome to your romantic dinner extraordinaire,” I say, with a grandiose gesture of my arms and a slight bow. Then, I pull a bouquet of flowers from my bag and present them to him.

        “Sou...You’re recreating that day, aren’t you?” He takes the flowers and smells them. Deeply. “Six years ago. I really can’t believe it.”

        “Come on. Those burgers are calling us.”

        I manage to get us the same booth that we had six years ago. We sit in the same seats, across from each other near the window. We order the same things. Smile the same smiles.

        It’s so hard—it’s so fucking hard—not to reach out and grab his hands.

        We eat the burgers. We talk about how amazing it is that we’ve managed to avoid the paparazzi, always looking for the next story about literally anything. Rin’s face is everywhere and they can’t get enough of him and we’re finally alone, finally spending actual time together outside the stale walls of our apartment. I can’t help but smile the whole time. Can’t help but reach out and wipe, with my napkin, the little bit of ketchup on the corner of his mouth.

        After dinner, we head to the pier. Just like we did on that first day. His arm brushes mine as we walk, the sides of our hands brush, I’m so close that I can practically feel the blood rushing through his veins. When he looks over at me, letting the ocean paint him, I mouth to him silently that I love him. He smiles, blushes as if it were the first time, and turns away. Like a child. It makes my heart stop. Makes me swell. I can’t look away.

        We stop and lean against the railing, staring out at the ocean. We can see the opera house lighting up the sky. We’ve never actually been to an opera. We’ve been inside the building, but never to see an opera. It’s embarrassing.

        “Maybe I should’ve taken you to the opera,” I say. He nudges my elbow.

        “You should’ve! And you should’ve bought me a nice gown to go with it.”

        I nudge him back.

        “Next time.”

        “Yeah,” he says. His voice starts to quiet. He gets a vacant look in his eyes, his gaze falters. “Next time.”

        I know what he’s thinking. He knows what I’m thinking, too. I stare down at the water.

        “Hey. Rin.”

        “Yeah?”

        “Are we just gonna keep doing this?”

        “Doing what?”

        “ _This_.”

        I stretch my arms out. Showing him the entire ocean. He knows what I mean.

        “I don’t know.”

        “It’s been six years.”

        He doesn’t respond.

        “Six years, Rin. How many times are we gonna have this conversation?”

        He buries his head in his hands.

        “Please, I don’t want to talk about this. Not now, not today.”

        “Then when? You say that every time I bring it up.”

        “Just...not on our anniversary.”

        “Then when? Tell me. Give me a time and a place to talk about it.”

        “Sousuke,” he sighs. He sounds fed up with me. I push myself back from the railing and stick my hands in my pockets.

        “Fine. I’m going home.”

        He follows me as I walk back the way we came. Back to our apartment. He has his hands in his pockets, too. There’s space between us as we walk. A space that wasn’t there before. When we get to the apartment, he slams the door closed and throws the keys onto the couch.

        “Why do you always do this?” he says. “You always manage to bring this shit up at the worst fucking times.”

        “When am I supposed to bring it up, Rin? When we’re fifty and still sneaking around like fucking teenagers?”

        He starts to pace. I sit down on the bed and clench, unclench my fists. Over and over and over.

        “I try not to bring it up because you always get worked up about it, you always try to change the subject, but how long are you gonna do that? It’s not fucking fair, Rin, to either of us.”

        “I know, I know, fuck, I know.”

        He’s holding back tears, taking his jacket off while he paces. My head hurts. It hurts so damn badly.

        “You need to come out. The world needs to know. I’m so done with this shit.”

        “Why is it always just about you? Has it just gotten to the point that my perspective doesn’t matter?”

        “No, obviously not,” I sigh, “but that’s what we’ve been focusing on for the past six years. _Your_ perspective. One that I don’t even fucking understand.”

        He throws his jacket into the corner, leans back against the wall, and squats. I’m close to losing my mind.

        “Sousuke...”

        “Do you not love me? Do you not care about me? Are my feelings not important to you?”

        I realize, as the words leave my lips, that I’m not holding back. My heart has had enough.

        “Of course I love you...”

        “Then why don’t you want the world to know? You have the records, you have the medals, what more do you have to fucking lose? So what if you’re in love with a guy, what is the most that could happen to you?”

        “I just—”

        “I’m so done with your excuses. They don’t make sense. Tell me the _real_ reason that, after this long, you still don’t want to tell people about me.”

        “I don’t get why you’re so hung up on it. What is so wrong with just... _being_ with me? Why do you care so fucking much about telling people? Why do you want the world to know?”

        “It’s not that I want the world to know, Rin, it’s that I don’t want to fucking hide it.”

        My knuckles are white, and his voice is clouded in tears.

        “What is so wrong about loving me? What about me do you want to hide?”

        And suddenly, I’m crying, too.

        “Sousuke, no, that’s not it.”

        “Then what? What is it? Just fucking _tell_ me because from what I see, it can’t be anything else. It can’t be anything other than the fact that I’m embarrassing to you. You don’t want to love me, you don’t other people to know you love me. You and I know both know it has nothing to do with sexuality.”

        “It has nothing to do with you. I’m just scared, okay?”

        “Scared? You’re scared?”

        We both stand up.

        “I’m terrified of change! I don’t want this to change.”

        “That’s why we’re in this together, Rin! That’s why I’m here! To support you and be there for you, because things change. Things have to change! I’m here to _help_ you. Not be a burden on you.”

        “You always do that, Sousuke!”

        “Do what?”

        “Guilt trip me like that. We can’t have a single conversation without you making me feel like such a damn piece of shit.”

        “Maybe you deserve to feel like a piece of shit, after the hell you keep putting me through. Ever think of that? Ever think that maybe I’m trying to make you feel like a piece of shit?”

        He stares at me, _glares_ at me, daggers, swords, cutting through the air, for a few moments. Then he grabs the nearest object—it happens to be a lamp—and chucks it at my face. I duck. The lamp shatters against the wall behind me. We’re both fuming.

        “How fucking dare you,” he seethes.

        “Me? _Me?_ How dare _you_? How dare you put me through this? How dare you love me like this, show me the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking known, and then force me to keep it all cooped up. Force me to feel like I’m an embarrassment.”

        “Everything is always about you, you fucking asshole!”

        “No, everything is always about you, Rin. Everything. Everything in my life has always fucking been about you. Maybe I’m just a sideshow to you—fine, whatever, that’s why you don’t care about hiding it, because it’s not a big enough part of your life for you to care. But you’re everything to me. This is everything to me. Why can’t you see that?”

        He screams, pulls at his hair. I’m scared he might throw something else at me.

        “I hate you, you know? I fucking hate you. Even on a day like this, a day that I’ve been looking forward to for weeks, you make me question everything.”

        “And what’s wrong with that? You should be questioning everything. It’s not fair, Rin. It’s not fair. You’re hurting me too much.”

        “Then why don’t you just leave me, huh? If I’m hurting you so damn much, if coming out as a couple is so fucking important to you, just leave!”

        “The second you tell me you want me to leave, I will walk out that fucking door. Say the word and I’m gone. I’ll disappear and you’ll never have to see my face.”

        He feels so far away all of a sudden. Only moments ago, he was so close. But now he’s so far.

        “I love you, Rin. I love you so much. But I don’t know what to do when you make me question whether that’s enough.”

        “Maybe love isn’t enough, you know? Maybe we’ve been fooling ourselves this whole time.”

        “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all pointless.”

        I laugh. A dry, horrible, empty laugh. Rin slumps back down to the floor.

        “Then why does the thought of ending it make me sick?”

        I decide not to tell him, at that particular moment, that it makes me sick, too.


	17. 17

**17**

_Present Day—2047_

        I’m almost done. There are only a few photos and articles left.

        The next one is from Gou-obachan and Momo’s wedding. I’ve heard the story so many times, from so many people. I’ve even tried on the wedding dress. But, obviously, I’ve never seen this photo. It’s Dad, Gou-obachan, Haru-ojichan, and Yamazaki-san at the wedding reception. All dressed so nicely. Dad has his hair pulled back, and even Haru-ojichan has gel in his. I’ve only seen his hair like that at really formal events. If not for this photo, I never would’ve known that Yamazaki-san was even there.

 

* * *

 

_January—2022_

How is it, I wonder, that Tokyo always looks the same? Every time I come back it welcomes me with the same open arms and never feels any different.

        “I can’t believe it,” Rin is saying to me. He’s staring out the airplane window with his cheek pressed to his palm. “I mean, I can, he’s liked her since high school, but still.”

        “I’m surprised that you’re surprised. Momo’s always been persistent.”

        “I just can’t believe Gou didn’t tell me! Until she called to ask for my blessing.”

        “It’s not like you’re around a lot.”

        “Just a quick phone call. Hey, bro, what’s up, oh, did I mention I’m fucking Momo Mikoshiba?”

        I laugh quietly. He’s worked up about this, I know, but he’s happy for Gou, too. He’s always had a bit of a soft spot for Momo. I ruffle his hair.

        “They’re good for each other, you know? And hey, we have an excuse to visit now.”

        “I guess,” he grumbles.

        “Don’t be a diva.”

        “Don’t be an asshole.”

        He pouts when I pinch his cheek. In the darkness under the seats, our legs collide. I imagine that we’re so desperate for each other that we sneak into the small airplane bathroom and fuck, hard and fast and quiet, until we hear desperate knocks on the door. But, for the duration of the flight, we don’t move.

        Makoto and Haru meet us at the airport and drive us back to Gou’s apartment. Which she’s currently in the process of moving out of. Into an apartment with Momo as soon as they’re married—and then, she says, when they’re ready for kids, into a nice house in the suburbs.

        On the way to the car, Makoto and I manage to box out the reporters desperate for the latest juicy gossip about two of the best swimmers in the world and their childhood rivalry.

        Not that there’s much of a rivalry left. At the World Aquatics Championships this past December, in Fukuoka, Rin decimated Haru. Broke all his previous records in butterfly, the individual medley, and 200m free. Haru, in the end, didn’t stand a chance against Rin. At some point over the past few years, Rin had unquestionably and horrendously surpassed Haru—which isn’t to say that Haru isn’t still at the top of the world. He always wins his free events. But, one-on-one, he can’t stand up to Rin anymore. And he can’t beat any of his own records. Where Rin has continued to grow, each and every time he swims, Haru has hit his peak.

        I mean, he hasn’t. Rin and I’ve talked about it. We know he can do better. He knows it, too.

        He just isn’t doing better.

        I’m not sure if Rin and Haru have talked about it since December. They probably have.

        We only really get to greet each other in the car, away from the media.

        “So,” Makoto says. I’m sitting passenger. Haru and Rin are in the back. “Gou’s really getting married, huh? Seems like just yesterday she was training us for nationals.”

        “And to Momo,” Haru adds. Then he glances at Rin. “He’s a lucky guy.”

        “Isn’t she...I don’t know, too young?” Rin asks.

        “No,” we all reply.

        He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. And then, without warning, he bursts into tears, both happy and sad. Makoto swerves for a moment as I struggle to hold in my laughter, and Haru rubs Rin’s back.

        “My baby sister’s getting married,” he wails. “She’s all grown up...”

        “Is he drunk?” Makoto asks me.

        “Nope. Totally sober.”         

        At Gou’s, we all receive very warm hugs from both her and Momo. Actually, everyone is there. Rei, Nagisa, Nitori, Seijuro Mikoshiba. We all share drinks, stories, jokes, laughs. We fill the apartment with chlorine-covered nostalgia. Rin doesn’t leave Gou’s side. He smothers her with affection. Unexpected kisses and hugs and whispers in her red ear. Questions and excitement about the wedding happening in two weeks.

        I spend the two weeks leading up to it in excruciating agony.

        If I try to bring anything up about us, about how I feel to Rin, I know he’ll throw a fit. And it’s not just about him anymore, there are other people relying on us to keep it together. But it’s hard. It’s always been hard, but especially since the fight we had on our anniversary. We argue at least three times a week. About literally anything. Mostly about the fact that he still won’t come out, still won’t tell anybody about us. (Well, anybody except for Haru, Makoto, Gou, and the rest. He’s open about it to them. Only to them.) But we fight about other things, too. I feel, more and more profoundly with each moment, that I’m just extra baggage. That he doesn’t need—or want—the burden of caring about my emotions. About how much of a toll this is taking on me. I mean, I knew from the beginning that this relationship would be asymmetrical. That I would put more of myself into it than him. But I never imagined that I would hate myself this much for being such a burden.

        How many fucking times have I told myself to leave in the past few months? For me, to escape this emotional hell? For him, to escape the chains that hold him down?

        But I can’t.

        I’m too selfish.

        I love him too much.

        The moments of bliss make me forget the hell.

        I love Rin Matsuoka. That’s just part of me now.

        And it’s part of who he is, too.

        He relies on me. Relies on the love that I give him, relies on the fact that he can give me his love, too. As much of it as he can.

        What would happen to him if, after almost seven years, he woke up without me beside him?

        I can’t imagine it.

        We really are part of each other.

 

* * *

 

        Rin is a mess the day of the wedding. But all of us have to spend the majority of the day getting Momo to look respectable. Even Momo, the jokester, the rowdy child, has eyes glistening with tears of disbelief, of ecstasy, as we gel his hair and fix his tux. We all kiss his cheeks, pinch them, make fun of him as the hetero of the group. We take picture after picture, make face after face. Haru, in his notorious stoicism, smiles more than I’ve ever seen him smile before. We’re happy. Imagining Gou, beautiful and excited and ambitious, getting dressed in another room. When we bring it up, Momo blushes.

        “You really are in love, huh?” Nagisa teases with a kiss to Momo’s cheek. “If you break her heart, though, we’ll break your face.”

        The wedding is beautiful. Rin tries to keep it together as he walks Gou, gorgeous and graceful, down the aisle. But the tears flow and he starts to sniffle and before he lets her go she wipes his tears and kisses his cheek. Then they go through the ceremony. We holler and whistle and throw flowers as Momo dips her, like a real gentleman, and kisses her. Swallows her laughter as she swallows his. Rei begins to sob, so Nagisa starts to sob, too. Even I’m getting a little choked up. They look picture-perfect. Clashing red hair, golden eyes complementing red, bright smiles. I really am surprised that Rin didn’t see this coming.

        And at the reception we all get hammered. Especially Momo.

        The night, I’ll admit, is a bit of a blur for me. I have a few glasses of champagne, dance, sneak out with Haru to smoke a joint despite Rin’s brotherly protests, come back, drink more champagne, dance more. I dance with everybody. A salsa with Momo, swing with Nagisa, a waltz with Haru. We all laugh and cry together, tell embarrassing stories and offensive jokes, stuff our faces and take selfies. I have, I think, a great time. Enough so that I hardly remember it the next morning. I really have no idea about Rin.

        In the middle of the night (or early morning, I guess), I stumble out of bed to get to the bathroom and puke everything up. As I trip over my feet, fall over the toilet, and begin to vomit, I can just barely hear voices in the living room. I lean my arms on the toilet seat, close my eyes in some futile attempt to make my head stop spinning. It’s Rin and Haru. That, I can tell. Everybody else—Gou, Momo, Makoto—must be asleep. And I can also tell that they’re both tipsy. When I realize that I can’t understand what they’re saying, I inch closer to the door, lay flat on my stomach, and concentrate totally and completely on their conversation.

        “I’m gonna miss her, you know?” Rin says.

        “Why? You’re never here anyway. Not really much to miss.”

        “Oi, don’t be a dick like Sousuke.”

        “Ouch. That’s hurtful to both of us.”

        “You’re right, sorry, whatever.”

        “Maybe you should just go to bed?”

        “No. I wanna talk to you more.”

        I hear shuffling on the couch, a pause.

        “You should come visit me in Australia more, Haru. I miss you.”

        “You should come back to Japan more. Why do I have to be the one to go to Australia?”

        “I come to Japan all the time!”

        “You do not.”

        “Do, too.”

        “Fine. I’ll come see you in Australia more.”

        “Good. We can train together.”

        “Train together?”

        “Yeah. Like, in a pool. Because we’re swimmers.”

        “Right. That. Yeah, sure.”

        “Then maybe you’ll get good enough to beat me. There’s something in Australia’s water, I think,” Rin snickers.

        There’s another pause. More shuffling.

        “You know that’s not true,” Haru says. His voice drops a bit, so I inch closer to the door.  

        “Of course not. Why would there be something in Australia’s water?”

        “No, no. That’s not what I mean, Rin. I mean me beating you.”   

“What? I don’t—”

        “I mean I’ll never get good enough to beat you,” Haru repeats, over-enunciating every word. “You and I both know it.”

        “Oh, that’s not true. You could totally beat me. You’ve done it before. That’s just how it is. Sometimes you win, sometimes I win...we push each other.”

        “That’s how it was _before_. Not anymore. You’re way better than me now. I can’t really compete with you anymore. You know that, right? I can’t beat you. You’re the best, Rin. I’ll never beat you.”

        “Sure you will...”

        “No. I won’t.”

        He says it authoritatively. Firmly. I can imagine the look on his face when he says it. And I can imagine Rin’s face, too. Surprised. Astonished. Hurt.

        “But...what am I supposed to aim for?”

        “I don’t know. Not me. Not anymore”

        “Haru.”

        “I’m kind of tired. I’m gonna go to bed. See you tomorrow, Rin. Get some rest.”

        “Okay. Good night.”

        I hear Haru get up from the couch, hear it creak. I hear him go to the guest room, where he and Makoto are crashing for the night, open the door, and close it. Rin, from what I can tell, doesn’t move. But, in my slightly drunken stupor, I want to be with him. I pull myself to the feet, sway a little bit, splash water onto my face and walk out to the living room where Rin is still sitting on the couch. Hands in his lap, staring at the ground.

        “Rin, babe,” I say. “It’s late. Come to bed.”

        “Y-yeah. Okay. I’ll be there in a second, Sou.”

        “Everything okay?”

        I lean over the back of the couch and kiss his temple. I know everything isn’t okay, but I’m a little too drunk to not ask anyway.

        “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

        “You sure?” I put my hand on top of his head and stroke his hair.

        “Yes. Stop it, you’re drunk.”

        He swats my hand away and stands up.

        “S-sorry.”

        “Whatever. Let’s just go to bed.”

        I follow him back into the small room where we’re staying. I collapse onto the bed, watch him flip the lights on and start to strip. Take his jacket off, toss it into the corner. I notice, suddenly, that he’s trying to hide tears from me. He acts as if they’re not even there. Strips down until he’s just in his briefs. Then, staring at himself in the mirror, he pauses. I sit up.

        He puts his hands on the hem of the pants that he just stepped out of and he rips them in half.

        “Rin,” I breathe.

        He grabs a vase, sitting on a small table, and throws it at the wall. It shatters. He swipes his hand across a shelves of books and sends them all flying—he starts to yell. Breaks everything in sight, keeps screaming. I stand up. Walk toward him. When he turns away from me, I grab his shoulders and force him to face me. I grab his wrists, bloody from breaking the glass, and I stare into his eyes.

        “Rin, look at me. Look at me.”

        “Let go of me. Let go of me, Sousuke.”

        “Just look into my eyes.”

        I finally manage to grab his eyes. They’re bloodshot and crazed. Gou is knocking on the door now, yelling at us to open.

        “What’s the fucking point anymore? What’s the point? There’s nothing left! There’s...there’s literally nothing left, it’s useless, it’s pointless, everything is fucking pointless.”

        “Hey.”

        I put my hands on his cheeks and press my forehead against his. His breathing is ragged, his lips quivering.

        “Take a deep breath. Shh, just breathe.”

        “I can’t, I can’t do it...”

        “Come here.”

        He curls up into my body and we fall to the floor. Gou is still knocking on the door.

        “There’s nothing left.”

        “Shh. It’s okay.”

        I whisper into his ear. Brush his hair. Kiss his forehead, over and over and over. While he sobs into my chest and repeats, over and over and over, “There’s nothing left.”

        _Nothing except me._


	18. 18

**18**

_Present Day—2047_

        The sun is probably starting to rise. Dad will be up soon. Will pop into the shower, get dressed, make me breakfast, head to work. Not that he really needs to work—but he helps out with coaching the Japanese national team. He’ll probably go into my room to kiss me before he leaves and be confused when I’m not there. But he won’t think much of it. She’s gone back to the coffee shop or the library to work on her thesis, he’ll think. He’ll send me a message. Something cheesy, like, “Write the shit out of that thesis, Princess.” I smile when I imagine him, asleep on the couch downstairs, dreaming about who knows what. Maybe Mom. Maybe Yamazaki-san. Probably Yamazaki-san. Replaying these moments in his head, because that’s where he has to preserve them. I don’t know if he ever comes up here to look at them. Remind himself of the relationship he once had. I start to reorganize the photos, putting the ones I’ve looked at back into the box. There must be more, I think, with Yamazaki-san. But maybe my father got rid of every other photo except these ones. Tried to erase Yamazaki-san from his heart, but couldn’t bear to get rid of these particular photos.

        I wonder if I’ll ever get the courage to ask Dad about these photos.

        And about why it’s _my_ name written on the box containing them.

        I grab the next photo. It’s from the 2022 World Swimming Championships. It’s the tournament where my father first cemented his place as the best swimmer in history (arguably). But he hates talking about it. He says, when I ask him about it, that it’s the day his swimming career really ended, even though that’s kind of a lie. Because after that he competed in another Olympics and many more international championships.

        “Emotionally,” he always clarifies. “Emotionally, after those championships, I was done.”

        This photo is more explicit than others. Dad and Yamazaki-san are kissing in this one. It looks like they’re in their apartment—most of their photos seem to be.

        And my heart drops when I see that, on my father’s finger, there’s a golden ring. And a matching one on Yamazaki-san’s finger.

        They look utterly, completely enamored. In love. Like soulmates. In a way that Dad and Mom never looked, not once.  

        The article reads, _Rin Matsuoka makes his mark on swimming history._

       

* * *

 

_December 2022_

        The night before competition begins, Rin is on the phone with Sasha. She’s asking him how he’s feeling. If he’s nervous. If he needs anything from her. When he’ll be back in Australia because she wants to visit him again—she’s planning on moving to Sydney, after all. He’s on the balcony talking to her, and I’m sitting inside. Drinking a can of beer, vacantly watching the television. Rin’s voice sounds tired, almost disinterested. He’s tired, I think, of trying to act excited about competing. He’s tired of trying to act nervous, anxious, pressured. Because he’s not any of those things. He’s totally, absolutely calm. Because he knows, without a doubt, that he’s going to win every one of his events without so much as a hiccup. He knows it, and everyone else knows it, too. He hasn’t talked to Haru at all since we arrived. Even though Haru has tried calling him. Even though Haru called me in a desperate attempt to reach Rin.

        “Yeah. Thanks for calling, Sash. Actually, I’m wearing it right now.”

        Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach his hand up to admire the bracelet that’s there. It glimmers, as if it knows that he’s talking about it.

        “Sure. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”

        He hangs up the phone, but he doesn’t come inside for another few minutes. The breeze comes in from the open door and I burrow more deeply under the covers. I watch his silhouette, hunched over the railing on the balcony. Watch his sculpted back rise and fall with his breath, think about how much he needs a haircut. Eventually, he comes inside, shutting the door smoothly behind him. He climbs into bed beside me and grabs my hand under the covers. Caresses each of my fingers, one by one, as if counting them. To make sure they’re there.

        “What are you thinking, Princess?” I murmur. I lean over and kiss his shoulder.

        “Nothing.”

        “How’s Sasha?”

        “She’s good. Starting the move to Sydney.”

        “So you’ll get to see her when we get home.”

        “Yeah.”

        I kiss his shoulder again. He keeps counting my fingers. Inches closer to me to let my tongue paint pictures on the skin of his shoulder.

        “When are you gonna call Haru back?” I ask.

        “When the championships are over.”

        “Oh.”

        “I’m so fucking over this, Sou.”

        “I know you are.”

        “It’s not even a challenge. It’s not...it’s losing its meaning. Everyone knows I’m gonna win, and everyone expects it, but I don’t feel any pressure.”

        “You’ve already made history. You can stop anytime you want.”

        “I know. And a part of me feels like I should. But another part of me feels like I never, ever want to stop swimming. Why would I? Just because I’m the best? That doesn’t make sense.”

        “It doesn’t have to make sense. You do what you feel is right.”

        “You’re too supportive.”

        “Uh, sorry?”

        He grabs my arm with both hands, burrows under the covers, leans his cheek against my bicep.

        “Don’t be. I love you.”

        “I know. I love you, too.”

        “You do?”

        “Of course.”

        “Even when you’re fed up with me?”

        “Even then.”

        “Even when I throw things at you?”

        I chuckle, and brush his hair back.

        “Even when you throw things at me. Even then, I love you more than anything.”

        “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with me, Sousuke?”

        “I’ve always wanted to spend every second of my life with you.”

        “Me, too.”

        He looks up at me expectantly, so I tilt his head up and I kiss him. Gently, sweetly, until he pulls at my shirt and draws me into him. I flip him onto his back and put my leg between his, run my hand up his bare chest and let myself become lost in the way his fingers twirl in my hair.

        “You should probably go to bed early,” I say, my voice muffled.

        “Mm, yeah.”

        But we don’t stop. We fuck, make slow passionate love until we can’t keep our eyes open anymore. Then, while our sweaty skin sticks together and we can’t tell whose breathing is whose, we fall asleep. Not worrying at all about whether Rin is going to make history tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

        Rin and Haru don’t talk after the 200m freestyle race, in which Rin beats Haru without a hitch. They hardly even look at each other, in or out of the pool. Haru seems desperate to get his attention, but Rin is avoiding him desperately. He gets out of the pool smoothly, rips off his swimming cap and goggles, makes a beeline for the locker rooms ignoring all the reporters. Haru watches him leave, fiddling with his own swimming cap, succumbing to the flock of reporters swarming around him. Asking him how it feels to once again be defeated by his childhood friend and rival, Rin Matsuoka. It hurts me to see him like that. Flustered, nervous, close to tears. Not even Makoto can do anything.

        Rin sets new records in the 50, 100, and 200 butterfly, the 200 individual medley, and his team sets a new record for the 4x100 medley relay. But when he gets out of the pool, every single time, he raises his eyebrows at me, gestures to the locker room, and I meet him there. He throws his fits. Has his breakdowns. Knows they’re coming and wants me to be there. Throws his swimming cap, his goggles, his water bottle, punches the locker until his knuckles bleed, until I have to hold him back and press his forehead against my shoulder.

        We never once imagined that winning would make him like this.

        After the championships are over, the world labels Rin as the best swimmer in history. Or, at the very least, one of the best. One of the most decorated. The one who holds the most records, longest undefeated run. After the championships are over, he finally talks to the press. Puts on his pearly smile and charming answers. Is humble and genuine, but bold and confident. And for the first time ever he says, “Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without my trainer and best friend, Sousuke. He’s been my anchor through everything.”

        He only calls Haru when we’re back in Sydney.

        “I’m sorry I wouldn’t talk to you. I’m just working some things out. I’m not mad at you or anything.”

        Haru, if I know him well enough, is not okay.

        Then again, Rin isn’t either.

        About a week after we get back to Sydney, we go to Sasha’s new apartment for the housewarming party. She, as expected, flirts with Rin all night. But it’s not really flirting at this point, I guess, because they’re close friends. They’ve confided in each other. I’ve heard it, even when Rin thinks I’m asleep or can’t see the messages on his phone. She tries to kiss him again, and he avoids her again. I try, as hard as I can, to hate her. For something other than her obvious love for Rin. And, of course, I fail.

        The media is starting to talk about a potential romance between Rin Matsuoka and Sasha Kershaw, but he changes the channel any time it pops up on television. We avoid the subject completely.

 

* * *

 

        Exactly two weeks after the world championships, we’re in our apartment. I insisted on staying in, on cooking dinner and buying expensive wine and lighting candles. The whole nine yards.

        By now, we’ve been together a little over seven years.

        And I’m impatient. I really am fed up. And he knows it.

        But I want to prove it.

        After dinner, Rin offers to do the dishes. He puts on rubber gloves, kisses me on the nose, and starts to clean. Usually, it’s after dinner that we have our fights. When we’re both full and content and start to think about everything that’s wrong in our stupid relationship. But today we don’t argue. The lights are dim, we’ve lit candles, we’re blushing from the wine and the pasta and the soft kisses. I’m happy and I’m sad and I’m nervous all at once. As he cleans, humming to himself, I sit at the table and steel my nerves. Clench, unclench my fists, feel for the bumps in my pockets. Then I stand up and I move behind him. I kiss the back of his neck, feel him laugh.

        “Rin. I need to ask you something.”

        “Come on, are we really gonna do this tonight?”

        I kiss him again.

        “No.”

        “Good. In that case, what do you wanna ask me?”

        “Remember when we were at the championships, and you asked me if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you?”

        “What, have you already changed your mind?”

        “No.”

        As he turns over his shoulder, I get down on one knee. His eyes go wide, his body freezes, even his breathing stops. He’s paralyzed in this moment. I pull the box from my pocket and hold it out.

        “But I want it to be official.”

        “S...Sousuke...”

        “Rin Matsuoka. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

        He bites down on his lip. Trembling.

        “Will you marry me?”

        I open the box to reveal a simple golden ring. He closes his eyes for a moment, and I’m scared of what he’s gonna say when he opens his mouth. But he doesn’t. He just starts to nod. My heart starts to soar. I can’t feel myself in my body anymore. I smile up at him, remove the glove from his hand, and slip the ring onto it. We’re both shaking. As I stand up, he wraps his arms around my neck. I’m not sure how long we stand there together. How long it takes for us, drowning in tears and laughter and declarations of love, to pull apart and kiss and for him to put the ring onto my finger.

        “I love you, Rin.”

        “I love you. I love you so much.”

        “I’ll always love you. You know that, right?”

        “Of course I do. And I’ll always love you.”

        “Always? Forever? Every moment of the rest of your life?”

        “Yes. I swear it. Every moment of the rest of my life I will love you with every single fiber of my being, Sousuke Yamazaki. Every single moment. I don’t even have a choice at this point. It’s just how it is.”

        “Yeah?”

        “Yeah.”

        We fall into the sheets.

       

* * *

 

        And then hell breaks loose and he breaks my heart in the same day that he makes it whole.

        “Hey, Sou,” he says, in the middle of the night, when we’re floating together in the candlelight.

        “Hmm?”

        “When...when were you planning?” He holds his hand up to the light. Stares at his ring.

        “When was I planning what?”

        “You know. To have the wedding.”

        “Oh. I thought we could decide that together. Sometime within the next six months? I guess it also depends on how big you want the wedding to be. We could spend a bunch of time planning if you want, or we could just do it low-key and have it really soon.”

        “Do we...I don’t know, do we wanna rush?”

        I glance over at him. Gaze still fixed to his hand against the ceiling.

        “Rush? What do you mean, rush?”

        “I mean, do we have to do it that soon?”

        “I don’t understand. We’ve already been together for almost seven and a half years. We’re not rushing into anything.”

        “I know, but still.”

        “Still...?”

        “Sousuke. Don’t make me say it. Don’t make us do this again.”

        I sit up in bed, bury my face in my hands. My head is hurting now. Splitting open. I’m going to be sick, all over the bed, the sheets, all over both of us.

       

* * *

 

        _This is exactly what I was afraid of, isn’t it?_

_But I still didn’t think it would actually happen._

 

* * *

  

        I won’t spell out the details of the argument that came next.

        I’ve spelled it out already more than once.

 

* * *

 

        “When I’m ready,” he tells me. Round tears on his red cheeks. “When I’m ready, we’ll get married.”

        “Okay.”

        “I promise. And to prove it…”

        He reaches back and pulls his necklace, the silver one, over his head. I bow mine as he slips it onto my neck.

        “Think of how much I love you when you wear it,” he says.

        I don’t say anything. I just stare at my distorted reflected in the silver rectangle around my neck.

        I know, somewhere maybe not so deep down, that he’ll never be ready.

        Even though I’ve been ready since the very first moment.


	19. 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost done!! ah!! 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me this far <3 
> 
> xoxo

**19**

_Present Day—2047_

That’s the last of the photos. I start putting everything back into the box, wiping tears as I do it, wondering how I would ever bring this up to Dad. But as I put the photos back in, I notice something else. Something that I missed. A crumpled up note, written on traditional notebook paper, and a small manila envelope. I pull them both out and sit back down. First, I look inside the envelope. Shake what’s inside into my open palm.

        Two golden rings. They look like the ones in the picture.

        I gently put them back into the envelope and return it to the box. Then I open the note. As I start to read it, I bite down on my lip to keep my voice down. When I finish reading it, in anger and frustration and confusion, I crumple it up in my palm. For a moment, I feel the urge to run downstairs, wake up Dad, push this note in his face and ask him who the hell he thinks he is.

        _To the love of my life, Rin Matsuoka._

_I’m sorry. For a lot of things. I guess I just can’t afford to be selfish anymore—it’s killing me. Each day that passes I feel myself crushed a little bit more, dying a little bit more. I love you more than I could ever say, but I’m unraveling. Coming apart in your fingers. And if I keep going like this, if we keep going like this, I don’t think I’ll survive. You keep saying you need time. But I think you’ve been lying to me. I think you need more than time._

_I think you need freedom._

_And I’m not going to be selfish anymore. I’m not going to take that freedom away from you. You’re going to be hurting now, but I want you to understand. I really have no choice. I’m doing it for me and for you._

_Most of all, I’m sorry that I’m doing it through this note. That’s not fair to you. After almost eight years, it’s really shitty. But I can’t do it. I can’t look you in the eyes and tell you that I’m leaving you. Because I think my heart would stop, watching you cry over me again._

_Please never doubt that I love you. I said it then, and I’ll say it again now: I’ll love you forever. Always. Every moment of my life._

_But I can’t make you keep pretending that you feel the same._

_I love you, Rin._

_Live your life. Please. For yourself._

_Marry Sasha. Be happy with her. Have a family._

_Just don’t forget about me, okay?_

_I’ll be thinking of you every moment..._

_But I need to think about myself, too._

_Bye, Rin. Forever the love of my life._

 

* * *

 

_May 2023_

        I’m at the pool, stretching out some of the swimmers. One of the swimmers is having issues with his knee, and he’s afraid of an injury. I’m telling him how to take care of it, how to stretch it, when he should come see me and when he should be worried. Rin is in the pool, training. While he’s under the water, his coach barges in, a tabloid magazine in his hand. He’s laughing, bellowing, holding the magazine up. Everyone looks up at him.

        “Rin! Take a look at this!” he cries. Rin’s head pops up at the edge of the pool, and he pushes his goggles up to his head. He grabs the magazine straight from his coach’s hands and glares at it. After a few moments, he throws it as far as he can, an angry look on his face, and his coach laughs even harder. I walk over and grab the discarded magazine.

        The cover story is crystal clear: _Rin Matsuoka in clandestine love affair with Australian supermodel Sasha Kershaw?_ It shows a picture of Rin and Sasha, walking through the park. It’s a picture taken about a week ago, when he and Sasha had gone out for a walk. I laugh along, handing the magazine off to the next hungry eye, but Rin and I meet eyes. He looks absolutely livid. He puts his goggles back on and prepares to propel himself through the water again.

        “Hey, Rin!” his coach calls. “Maybe you should marry the girl? She’s good for ya. Isn’t it time you settled down already?”

        “I’m only 26, you old son of a bitch.”

        Rin starts to swim again as his coach falls into another fit of laughter. Everyone else is laughing, too. But I can hear it in his coach’s voice. He’s a little bit serious. Everyone is. At this point, I think everybody in the whole world thinks that Rin and Sasha are having an affair. It makes sense, too. They talk all the time. Have been caught hanging out together. Both refuse to talk about the other except to say that they’re “good friends.” It’s a story handed to the media on a silver platter, and a target right on Rin’s forehead.

        That night, Sasha knocks on our door in a frenzy.

        “How are they getting these pictures?” she screams, pacing. In the same way that Rin does when he’s worked up. He’s sitting on the couch, watching her, as I stand behind and massage his shoulders. “We’re always so careful!”

        “I don’t know. But it’s annoying as hell,” he sighs.

        “You’re damn right it is. Can’t do fucking anything without them up our asses.”

        “I would say that we should just lie low...”

        “But then we let them win! No. I refuse.”

        “...Right.”

        “We should just keep doing exactly what we’ve been doing. But how do we get them off our backs?”

        “Just keep saying what you usually do,” I offer. “That you’re friends. They can’t prove you wrong.”

        “Like that makes a difference. People believe what they want,” she mumbles.

        “Then it really doesn’t matter what you say anyway, does it?”

        She pauses, rubbing her temple with her long, pink nails. Then she looks at Rin, looks back at me, and back to Rin.

        “Sousuke, I love you, but would you mind giving me and Rin a minute? Alone?”

        “Oh. Sure,” I say with a shrug. Rin watches me go out of the room. But I don’t move when I’m out in the hall. I keep my back pressed against the door.

        “So?” Rin asks. “What’s so important that Sou had to leave?”

        “I want you to be honest with me.”

        “Of course. Always.”

        “Do you really think that we’re telling the reporters the truth? That we’re just friends?”

        I can’t breathe. Rin doesn’t respond. There’s silence. I hear footsteps—Sasha’s.

        “Rin, please look at me.”

        Her hands are probably on his cheeks now.

        “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you.”

        “Sasha.”

        More silence.

        She’s kissing him. Probably. Certainly. I consider finding an excuse to storm back into the room, but I hold myself back. I want to see what Rin does.

        “Sorry,” I finally hear him say. “Sorry, Sasha. I can’t do this. Not right now.”

        “What does that mean? Not right now? Don’t say that to me if this isn’t going anywhere. Don’t play with me like that.”

        “I’m not...I’m not trying to play with you. I just can’t commit to anything right now.”

        “You’re always so fucking vague.”

        At least, I think with a smile, I’m not the only one who gets frustrated with Rin’s ambiguity in almost every answer he gives.

        “Give me some time to think, okay? Please don’t change your story. Promise me?”

        “Fine. I promise.”

        “Go home. Get some rest.”

        “All right.”

        I rush down the stairs so that they don’t know that I was eavesdropping. Sasha, on her way out, kisses me on the cheek and smiles.

        “I don’t know how you do it, Sousuke. Take care of him the way that you do. He’s such a handful.”

        I shrug.

        “I’m used to it.”

        “Well...thank you. At least he has someone like you there.”

        And then she’s gone. I walk back upstairs and into the apartment.

        “So,” I begin. I don’t want to waste time. Rin is on the sofa, head in his hands. “You can’t commit to anything right now? Hmm?”

        “Fuck, you were listening?”

        “Of course I was. Who the hell do you think I am.”

        “I just said anything I could to get her to leave.”

        “She a good kisser?”

        “Wha—Sou!”

        “Why the _fuck_ are you leading her on, Rin? She doesn’t deserve that. All she is is good to you. And you know what? Neither do I.”

        “Fucking hell, what do I have to do to convince you that I love you?”

        “That’s not what I’m questioning! Don’t change the subject.”

        “I just feel pressured, all right? Do you know how many people have told me in the past few weeks that I should be with Sasha? That I should ‘settle down?’ Too many.”

        “How is that my fault? Or her fault? It’s nobody’s fault, but it doesn’t give you the right to play with people’s feelings.”

        “I’m not!”

        “You know. If you’re so worried about breaking Sasha’s heart, maybe you _should_ marry her.”

        “What the fuck are you talking about?”

        I sit down on the floor, right where I’m standing.

        And I begin to cry.

        For the first time since we’ve been together, I sob in front of him. Bury my head in my hands and weep. It’s not just about this, and he knows it. It’s everything. The secrecy. The fact that he hasn’t put on the ring I bought him once since I gave it to him. How we haven’t even talked about a wedding. The way he steps on me, crushes me, only to revive me with his love every single fucking day. I’m tired, I’m so tired, and he knows I am. I sob disgustingly, like a child. I feel him approach, crouch down, wrap his arms around me.

        “I’m sorry, Sousuke. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

        “I know you’re sorry. I know you love me. It’s the same every time, Rin. Always the same.”

        “I—”

        “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again,” I hiss. “Sorry isn’t helping anybody.”

        _Sorry has never fucking done anything_

_And you know it._

 

* * *

 

        I guess Sasha is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I don’t usually like to use cliché phrases like that, but it’s the best way I can think to describe why, the next week, I left Rin with nothing but a note in my place. I packed gradually, and not everything, so he wouldn’t notice. I bought a plane ticket to Tokyo with my own credit card. I handed in my week’s notice and asked that nobody tell Rin.

        And then, I left.

        After almost eight years.

        I woke up early in the morning. Rin was asleep. Beautiful, innocent, breaking my heart with every breath. I sat beside him in bed for an eternity and I brushed his hair back from his face. Kissed him over and over and over, held his hand. Said his name until I couldn’t hear my own voice. Held back tears desperately, swallowed back my pride and my better judgment and kept telling myself, kept saying,

        there’s no way this is worth it

        I spent hours on a note. Because I couldn’t bear to tell him in person. Couldn’t bear to see his reaction and be forced to question this. Because I knew this was the right decision. It had to be. There was no other decision to make. It had to be this one.

        Or so I kept telling myself.           

         Before I left, I kissed him one more time and whispered into his ear, I love you more than anything in the world. I took off my ring and put it on the note on the nightstand. I kissed it once. But I couldn’t take off the necklace he gave me. I would need it. To remind myself that he loved me, no matter where I was or where he was or whether we were together. I needed this part of him.

        Then I left.

 

* * *

 

        I never saw Rin again after that. He called me. He sent letters. Tried to get to me through friends. Did everything in his power to get to me. And I managed to avoid him. Managed to slip away from him. Haru approached me, desperate, because Rin wasn’t himself. Rin was losing his mind, he said, over me.

        And I told him, holding back tears, that that wasn’t my problem anymore.

        That I’d already lost my mind and wasn’t fit to find Rin’s.

        I moved back to Tokyo and took more classes to get my certification in physical therapy. I took up work at a physical therapy center there, built my life up from the ground. Although, not really. I had a lot of money saved up.

        In August, only a few months after I left Rin, he married Sasha Kershaw. They had their wedding in Sydney. They were happy. Rin was getting good at pretending.

        The year after that, Rin took every medal possible at the Olympics. Haru announced his retirement at those games. I watched from the couch of my apartment, alone. Still ignoring Rin’s calls. He left me voicemails every day. Yelling at me, pleading with me, calmly telling me about his day. I heard, from Haru, that he had to start going to therapy.

        Haru told me that Rin, for the first few months after I left, was suicidal.

 

* * *

 

       For ten years. The ten years following the day that I left Rin, I developed a horrible drinking problem. Sobriety drove me crazy, because I was forced to think about what I’d done and what would’ve happened if I hadn’t done it, so I drank. A part of me, my lifestyle, had disappeared, so I had nothing left but to drink in a futile attempt to forget. I wondered, every single moment, if this pain was any better than the pain I had felt with Rin. If leaving him was worth it.

 

* * *

 

        I still don’t have an answer.

        I don’t know if I made the right decision.

        All I know is that I made the only decision I could, to save myself and save Rin from self-destruction.

        And then, twenty-four years later, I saw him in a coffee shop.

        Saw his spitting image.

       

* * *

 

        And she had my name.  


	20. 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Ahh!!
> 
> I can't quite express how thankful I am to all of you for reading, commenting on, and finding meaning from my story. It means more to me than you'll ever know, especially on a story that I didn't have a lot of confidence in. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the last chapter!
> 
> xoxo

**20**

_ Present Day—2047 _

I pack everything away and, quietly, I head back downstairs. Make sure I turn off all the lights behind me, walk on my tiptoes. I pop into the living room to check on Dad. He’s right where I left him, curled up on the couch, buried under the covers, his hair awry and covering his face. I smile, though I’m not really sure what I’m smiling about. Then, because I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, I walk back to my room and fall asleep within moments. I’m vaguely aware that, at some point during the morning, Dad comes into my room before work and kisses me on the forehead.

“Sleep tight, Princess.”

When I wake up, it’s around eleven. I check my phone and see a text message from Akira, reminding me about lunch. I invite him over, telling him we have loads of leftovers, so he shows up at around one. Every time I see him I’m in awe of just how much he looks like Momo. We sit at the counter, eat lunch, and I tell him everything that I found.

“No way. Rin-ojichan? In love with someone else?” he gawks, blinking his golden eyes at me.

“Yup. I found tons of pictures, rings, a note.”

“Damn. I never would’ve guessed he was gay.”

“You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m fucking joking.”

We laugh, sneak some of the beers that Dad keeps in the fridge.

“So you think he cheated on Aunt Sasha?” Akira asks in a hushed tone. It doesn’t need to be hushed since there’s nobody around, and he knows that, but it feels like his voice needs to be hushed anyway. I shake my head.

“No, I think his thing with Yamazaki-san was way over by then. I don’t think he ever cheated on Mom. But...”

“But?”

I hold back my laughter as he blinks at me. Like he’s waiting for an answer to a question that will change his life forever.

“Did I ever tell you how, when I was four, like a few months after my mom left...?”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

“Haru-ojichan came over and I caught him having sex with Dad.”

“ _What?”_

“Yeah.”

Our sides ache from the laughter. At the time, it was traumatizing. I didn’t know what was happening, and I never told my father about what I’d seen. Emotional comfort sex, I guess? Even though Haru-ojichan had still been with Mako-ojichan at the time—I guess they managed to work things out, because the two of them never stopped being together.  

“I walked in on Mom and Dad once, but that’s totally not the same,” Akira says. “Your story is way better.”

“I know.”

“Well? What are you gonna do about Yama-whatever?”

“I don’t really know. I think I’ll call him.”

“Call him? And say what?”

“I don’t know. I want to know more about what his relationship with Dad was like.”

“But...why?”

I realize that I don’t have a response. I don’t actually know why I’m doing this. To better understand why my parents aren’t together anymore? To learn more about Dad? To satisfy my twisted curiosity?

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Well, first off, it’s not your business.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You’re the one who snuck into your neighbor’s yard when you were six because you didn’t think they were treating their dog nicely enough.”

“Fine. But still, don’t you think you’re going a little far?”

“Maybe,” I shrug. “I don’t know. I just feel like this is important.”

“One of your stupid ‘feelings.’”

“I’ve never really seen Dad _happy_. Maybe this is why.”

Akira raises his eyebrows at me, takes a sip of his beer, and shrugs. Do what you want, his expression says. He knows I’m beyond hope anyway.

And, sure enough, the next day, I look up the number for Tokyo Physical Therapy and call. I ask for Yamazaki-san. And, lo and behold, his voice appears on the other line.

“Hello, this is Yamazaki speaking.”

“Yamazaki-san? It’s me, Sousuke Matsuoka.”

“Hello, Sousuke. How did you know where to find me?”

“I saw it on your name tag the other day.”

“Oh. Right.”

His voice sounds different on the phone. Smoother.

“What can I do for you, Sousuke?”

“Are you busy right now? Am I interrupting something?”

“No. But I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”

“Okay. Perfect. I just...can I ask you what your relationship with Dad was like?”

“My relationship? With Rin? Well, like I told you, we were good friends.”

“You sure it wasn’t more than that?”

“What? Why would you think that?” 

“Because I found a note from you and two golden rings in our attic.”

There’s silence on the other line.

“I’m just curious,” I continue, “because there are also a ton of photos of you. Back from the 20s, I mean. And I would love to know why you left him for real.”

“What exactly do you want from me, Sousuke?” His voice sounds tired.

“I know this is out of the blue, but can I ask a favor?”

“Well, that depends on the favor,” he says coyly. I can imagine the smile on his face. I’ve seen it in so many photographs. It’s much older now, of course. Probably sadder.

When I tell him what I want, he immediately refuses.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Please? For me?”

“I hardly know you.”

“Well...” I pause. “You’re kind of the reason my parents got a divorce, and that left poor four year-old me pretty traumatized, so I think you owe me this.”

“You’re definitely more devious than your father ever was.”

“I got it from Mom.”

“Right.”

“So? Please?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know that you probably don’t agree, and you think I’m meddling, but...I think you both need it.”

“All right. All right, fine.”

The beat of my heart is unnatural. I can hear every detail of my own breathing. My hand, holding the phone, is shaking.

 

* * *

 

One week later, it’s Saturday, and Dad doesn’t have work. I’ve made significant progress on my thesis (somehow), so I’ve decided to take the day off, too. It’s sunny, not horribly chilly outside, beautiful. I walk into the kitchen while Dad is making coffee. I wiggle under his arm, hug him around the waist, and I don’t let go until he kisses the top of my head.

“Good morning, Princess.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“How’s that thesis?”

“Good. Great, actually.”

“That’s my girl.”

He pinches my nose and hands me a fresh cup of coffee. I sit down at the counter and stare at my reflection in the brown liquid.

“So, Dad.”

“What’s up?”

“What are you doing today?”

“Me? Nothing. Was gonna just go run some errands, maybe invite Haru and Makoto over for dinner. Why?”

“Do you want to come to the park with me?”

“Oh. Are you asking me out on a date, pretty lady?” He leans his arms across the counter and raises an eyebrow at me. I raise an eyebrow back.

“That depends on whether you say yes. I’ll even buy you an ice cream cone.”

“Well, who am I to refuse such a kind offer? Of course I’ll come to the park with you, Princess. Just let me finish my coffee.”

“Old fart.”

“Shut up, you little brat.”

I watch him drink his coffee. Hair pulled back, a few gray hairs starting to show up. I’m expecting a mid-life crisis soon enough. Even at this age, though, he’s muscular enough to defend his title as greatest swimmer alive. I see so much of myself in him—the similarities in our appearances are that distinct. When he notices me watching, he furrows his brow.

“What? What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I sigh. “Your hair looks good today.”

“Oh. Thanks, Princess.”

I make us some sandwiches, check my watch, grab a few cans of soda. Then, just before noon, we head out to the park near our house. I link my arm through his and we walk, leisurely, making up stories about the people who walk by and gushing over the dogs being walked. I can’t remember the last time we went on one of our walks, without a care in the world. Except, I’m very nervous on this particular walk. I have to focus on my breaths, focus on his voice, focus on holding onto his arm to keep myself from chickening out. Keep myself from picking up the phone and calling off the whole thing. He’s going to hate me for this, I know he is. He’s going to hate me and never forgive me because I’m going to break his heart all over again.

“Hey, Dad, let’s go this way.”

“This way? All right, sure. Follow the leader.”

I lead him down a narrow path. It’s one of the more out-of-the-way parts of the park, lined with trees and benches and flowers and not very many people. We’re practically alone walking here. There are some people on the benches. Holding out their hands with crumbs to feed the curious, hungry birds. My stomach turns and turns and turns as I scan their faces.

Just as I see him, he sees us.

Dad is in the middle of a sentence. I don’t quite remember what he was saying, but in the middle of it, the man sitting on the bench in front of us slowly stands up. Drooping, bright green eyes sparkling brighter than the sun, hands in the pockets of his sports jacket, small smile on his face. Small, knowing, anxious smile.

Dad’s voice stops abruptly. We come to a halt in front of him.

“Hey,” Yamazaki-san says.

I glance up at my father. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide, his entire body is trembling. Tears gather, quickly and forcefully, on the edges of his eyes. I squeeze his arm harder. To remind him that I’m here. He looks as if he’s about to say something, then he stops. Then he opens his mouth again. His voice breaks.

“Sousuke,” he says.

But he’s not talking to me. I follow his gaze back to Yamazaki-san.

And it suddenly hits me how stupid I am for not seeing it before.

Yamazaki-san smiles when he sees the shocked look on my face, and lowers his gaze to his feet.

There is silence for so long. Dad and Yamazaki-san, my namesake, staring at each other. Yamazaki-san’s face unchangingly calm. Dad’s face astonished, hurt, holding back tears. He pulls his arm from my grip and takes a step forward.

“How dare you?” he finally says. Yamazaki-san keeps smiling. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move when Dad pushes against his chest. “How _dare_ you?”

He pushes again. Harder. This time, Yamazaki-san stumbles back.

“How dare you show up in my life again like this? Out of nowhere? How dare you think it’s okay to stand in front of me with that smile on your face? How dare you do this to me, Sousuke?”

It takes me, of course, a second to realize that it’s not me he’s yelling at.

He takes his fists and he bangs them against Yamazaki-san’s chest.

“I know. I’m sorry, Rin.”

“Sorry? You’re _sorry?”_

He bangs them against his chest again.

“Sorry for what, hmm? Leaving me after eight years with nothing but a note? Turning my life upside down, ruining me, breaking my heart? Not answering my calls or my letters? Forgetting that you promised—you fucking _promised_ —to stay with me forever?”

His voice is getting louder and louder. Tears falling to the earth. Yamazaki-san says nothing. He lets my father yell. Lets my father hit him. I watch and wring my hands together.

“You promised me, Sousuke! You promised me, and then you left me, and twenty-four years later you show up here and think that it’s okay?” He’s almost sobbing now. “You think that if you just...if you just stand there, with that stupid smile and those stupid beautiful eyes, it’ll be okay? I’ll be able to stand the sight of you? You _promised_.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t breathe. When you left. I couldn’t breathe, did you know that?”

“Yeah.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t blink without hurting, Sousuke, such pain that it made me want to fucking kill myself.”

“I know. I heard it in your voicemails.”

“You bastard.”

He slaps Yamazaki-san across the face. Yamazaki-san just takes it. Swallows back any pain that he’s feeling.

“I hate you, Sousuke. I hate you. I hate you for what you did to me.”

“I know. I hate me, too.”

“Don’t,” Dad cries, “make this about you.”

Yamazaki-san pauses. His cheek is red. Then he says, “It’s never been about me, Rin. It’s always been about you. That’s why I had to leave, after all.”

Dad clenches his fists.

“I know,” he says. “It’s always been about me. It’s always fucking been about me.”

“It wasn’t fair of me. To leave that note and nothing else.”

“Of course it wasn’t fair.”

“But you were unfair, too.”

“What are you even doing here?” Dad’s voice is quieter now. Softer, broken with the sobs that he’s trying so desperately to keep inside. I’m crying, too. Gently. In the background. They can’t see me anymore. “Are you here to make me cry again? Here to fight with me, just so you can leave? Again? Like you did then? Here to put my heart back together, then break it the way you did that day in May twenty-four years ago?”

Yamazaki-san doesn’t respond for a few moments. He unzips his jacket, reaches down, and holds up the necklace that he’s wearing. A silver rectangular pendant. He looks at it in his palm, the holds it up.

“I still wear it every day,” he says. “I wear it every day so that I never forget that you love me. It’s what pushed me forward every day. Every second. Wearing it and feeling the weight of your promise to love me every moment for the rest of your life no matter what happens. I need to wear it. Otherwise I won’t get through the day.”

“Sousuke, please don’t do this to me...”

“I don’t know if you have any reminders. But my promise still stands, too. My promise to love you forever. I’ve never broken it. Not once. Not then, and not now.”

Dad covers his mouth with his hand and looks Yamazaki-san in the eyes.

“I guess I want to know...should I take the necklace off? Does it mean anything anymore? Have you kept your promise, or should I take the necklace off and forget about you?”

Dad shakes his head. Over and over and over. Suddenly, I see tears on Yamazaki-san’s cheeks, too. He takes a step forward.

“Don’t take it off,” I hear my father say. “Please don’t take it off.”

Sousuke Yamazaki takes my father into his arms and holds him. They cry against each other and then, Yamazaki-san pulls away, leans down, and kisses my father’s lips. And I smile. I quiver, because I can feel from where I’m standing the affection, the intimacy—something I never once felt between my parents.

For the first time in my life, I’m watching my father love.

“I’m glad you never took the necklace off,” Dad says, “because I never did stop.”

“Me, neither.”

“I know. I felt it. In the nights I remembered when you couldn’t breathe because I was suffocating you. In the tears you cried. The things I threw at your head and the way you let me yell at you. Of course I know that you never stopped.”

“And I never will.”

“I hate that you can do this to me,” Dad says with a dry laugh. He’s holding on desperately to Yamazaki-san’s collar. “I hate that after everything that’s happened...you can still do this to me.”

“Rin Matsuoka.” Yamazaki-san tilts my father’s head up. My heart breaks. “Will you give this another chance? Give me another chance? Give yourself another chance? I want to love you right.”

“I...”

“Please, Rin. It doesn’t have to be over. Even now, after all these years...it doesn’t have to be over.”

“If you forgive me. For the hell that I put you through,” Dad murmurs. He puts his hands on Yamazaki-san’s cheeks, and they press their foreheads together. “If you forgive me for what I did to you, Sousuke. Yes.”

Their lips meet again.

“I love you,” they say.

Over and over and over.

Until it’s the only thing that I can hear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S: this is a very unique beast for me I'm generally incapable of writing happy endings lol. so if you're into angst and tragedy and fun things like that, take a look at my other stories :) love ya!


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